1  \ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


v/ 
f.\ 


0    \ 


/   \ 


'1ft. « 


The  Hill 
of   Dreams 


BOOKS    BY    ARTHUR    MACSEN 

THE  HOUSE    OF     SOULS 

THE  SECRET    GLORY 

FAR  OFF    THINGS 

THE  HILL    OF     DREAMS 

In    Preparation 
THINGS   NEAR   AND   FAR 
THE     THREE     IMPOSTORS 

NMW    YORK:    ALFRED    •  A    •   KN( 


The 
Hill  of  Dreams 


By  Arthur  Machen 


New  York 

Alfred  •  A  •  Knopf 

Mcmxxiii 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 

Published,  January,  1923 


Set  up  and  printed  6i/  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  BingJiamton,  N.  Y. 
Paper  ftirniehed  »i/  W.  F.  EtTwrington  &  Co.,  New  York. 
Bound  by  H.  Wolff  Estate,  Nev  York. 


Cnlleg« 
Library 

< 


Introduction 

In  the  year  189$  I  was  at  length  certain,  or  al- 
most certain,  that  I  was  a  man  of  letters.  I  had 
been,  if  I  may  put  the  matter  thus  familiarly,  for 
more  than  twelve  years  "on  the  job."  In  '83  I 
had  written  a  little  book  called  "The  Anatomy  of 
Tobacco,"  chiefly  as  a  counter-irritant  to  loneliness 
and  semi-starvation.  In  '84  I  had  translated  the 
Heptameron  of  Margaret  of  Navarre,  while  '85 
and  '86  were  devoted  to  the  concoction  of  "The 
Chronicle  of  Clemendy"  a  volume  of  medieval  tales. 
Another  translation,  a  version  of  "Le  Moyen  de 
Parvenir"  by  Beroalde  de  Ferville  —  his  name  is 
more  beautiful  than  his  book  —  occupied  the  leisure 
of  my  evenings  somewhere  about  '88  and  '89,  the 
days  being  given  to  the  rendering  of  the  "Memoirs 
of  Casnova"  (twelve  volumes)  into  the  English 
tongue. 

In  1890  I  was  writing  essays  and  short  stories  and 
odds  and  ends  and  varieties  for  papers  which  have 
now  become  ghosts:  The  Globe,  The  St.  James's 
Gazette,  and  The  Whirlwind;  to  say  nothing  of 
"smart"  tales  contributed  to  an  extinct,  or  almost  ex- 
tinct, family  of  journals;  the  "society"  papers.  In 

v 


1181095 


Introduction 

'go  and  'gi  I  wrote  the  "Great  God  Pan"  which 
was  published  at  the  end  of  'g^  and  made  a  mild 
sort  of  sensation  with  old  ladies,  on  the  press  and  of 
it.  And  in  the  spring  and  summer  of  'g4  I  was  busy 
with  "The  Three  Impostors"  which  fell  somewhat 
flatly  when  it  was  issued  in  the  autumn  of  'g$.  So, 
as  I  say,  I  began  to  feel  almost  convinced  towards 
the  end  of  the  year  i8g$  that  I  was  in  some  degree 
a  literary  man,  that  my  business  lay  in  the  direction 
of  writing  books.  Consequently,  it  appeared  that  I 
had  better  go  and  write  one.  Fery  good:  the  next 
question  was — what  sort  of  a  book  should  I  write? 
And  here,  the  reception  that  had  been  given  to 
"The  Three  Impostors"  helped  me  greatly.  I  have 
said  that  it  was  of  the  flat  kind,  but  beyond  this,  it 
was  critical.  I  was  told  that  I  was  merely  a  second- 
rate  imitator  of  Stevenson.  This  was  not  quite  all 
the  truth,  but  there  was  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  it, 
and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  took  my  correction  in  a 
proper  spirit.  I  resolved  to  try  to  amend  my  ways. 
I  made  manly  resolutions.  As  I  put  it  to  my  old 
friend,  that  distinguished  American  citizen,  A.  E. 
Waite:  "I  will  never  give  anybody  a  white  powder 
again"  And  on  the  whole,  I  have  honoured  that 
vow  ever  since.  I  was  to  start  afresh,  then,  from 
the  beginning,  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  both  as  re- 
gards matter  and  manner.  No  more  white  pow- 
ders, no  more  of  the  calix  principis  inferorum,  no 
more  hanky-panky  with  the  Great  God  Pan,  or  the 

vi 


Introduction 

Little  People  or  any  people  of  that  dubious  sort; 
and — this  was  the  hard  part  of  it — no  more  of  the 
measured,  rounded  Stevensonian  cadence,  which  I 
had  learned  to  use  with  some  faculty  and  more 
facility.  And  so  we  were  getting  on;  I  had  at  least 
found  out  the  sort  of  book  that  I  was  not  going  to 
write.  It  merely  remained  to  discover  what  sort 
of  book  I  was  going  to  write. 

I  took  this  problem  out  with  me  on  solemn  walks 
in  dimmest  Bloomsbury,  then  a  region  most  fit  for 
the  contemplations  of  a  meditative  man.  I  had  just 
moved  into  chambers  at  4  Fernlam  Buildings,  Gray's 
Inn,  and  so,  by  way  of  Theobald's  Road,  I  had  easy 
access  to  the  old,  grave  squares  where  life  moved 
quietly  and  peaceably  as  if  it  were  the  life  of  a  little 
country  town.  Grey  square  opened  into  grey  square, 
silent  street  into  silent  street;  all  was  decorous  and 
remote  from  the  roar  of  traffic  and  the  rush  of  men. 
But  few  people  ascended  the  steps  of  the  dim  old 
houses,  but  few  descended  them;  the  local  trades- 
men, all  old  established,  old-fashioned,  steady  and 
good,  called  for  orders  and  purveyed  their  wares 
in  a  sober  way;  Bloomsbury  was  silence  and  repose; 
and  in  its  grey  calm  I  pursued  my  anxious  studies, 
and  submitted  my  problems  to  myself. 

The  required  notion  came  at  last,  not  from 
within,  nor  even  from  Bloomsbury,  but  from  with- 
out. I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  almost  sure,  that  the 
needed  hint  was  discovered  in  an  introduction  to 

vii 


Introduction 

"Tristram  Shandy"  written  by  that  most  accom- 
plished man  of  letters,  Mr.  Charles  Whibley.  Mr. 
Whibley,  in  classifying  Sterne's  masterpiece,  noted 
that  it  might  be  called  a  picaresque  of  the  mind,  con- 
trasting it  with  "Gil  Bias"  which  is  a  picaresque  of 
the  body.  This  distinction  had  struck  me  very  much 
when  I  read  it;  and  now  as  I  was  puzzling  my  head 
to  find  a  spring  for  the  book  that  was  to  be  written, 
Mr.  Whibley's  dictum  occurred  to  me,  and  applying 
it  to  another  eighteenth  century  masterpiece,  I 
asked  myself  why  I  should  not  write  a  "Robinson 
Crusoe"  of  the  soul.  I  resolved  forthwith  that  I 
would  do  so;  I  would  take  the  theme  of  solitude, 
loneliness,  separation  from  mankind,  but,  in  place 
of  a  desert  island  and  a  bodily  separation,  my  hero 
should  be  isolated  in  London  and  find  his  chief 
loneliness  in  the  midst  of  myriads  of  myriads  of 
men.  His  should  be  a  solitude  of  the  spirit,  and 
the  ocean  surrounding  him  and  disassociating  him 
from  his  kind  should  be  a  spiritual  deep.  And  here 
I  found  myself,  as  I  thought,  on  sure  ground;  for 
I  had  had  some  experience  of  such  things.  For 
two  years  I  had  endured  terrors  of  loneliness  in 
my  little  room  in  Clarendon  road,  Notting  Hill  Gate, 
and  so  I  was  soundly  instructed  as  to  the  matter  of 
the  work.  I  felt,  in  short,  that  I  had  my  notion 
firmly  by  the  tail;  and  so  at  once  I  set  to  work. 

Not  to  writing,  be  it  understood,  but  rather  to 
the  daily  consideration   of  my  topic;  to   taking  it 

viii 


Introduction 

every  night  to  bed  with  me  as  a  child  takes  his  toy; 
to  putting  it  on  the  breakfast  table  beside  my  morn- 
ing tea,  again  as  a  child  with  a  new  toy  is  apt  to  set 
it  down  on  the  cloth  beside  his  plate  of  bread  and 
butter.  The  notion  (and  my  faithful  bulldog  Jug- 
gernaut} went  with  me  on  my  dim  Bloomsbury 
walks  on  grey  mornings  and  wintry  darkening  after- 
noons, and  when  occasionally  I  went  out  and  dined 
with  a  friend,  the  notion  was  in  my  pocket,  and 
every  now  and  then  I  would  take  it  out,  as  it  were, 
and  glance  at  it  for  a  moment,  to  make  quite  sure 
that  it  was  safe  and  still  there.  Unnoticed,  I  put 
a  few  drops  of  the  notion  in  the  wine  and  sprinkled 
it  lightly  on  the  meat  and  found  that  it  improved  the 
aroma  and  flavor  of  both  enormously;  and  when- 
ever I  was  a  little  bored  or  down  in  the  mouth  and 
out  of  sorts,  I  took  a  couple  of  spoonfuls  of  the 
notion  and  felt  better  at  once. 

And  then  I  began  to  plan  it  out  on  paper,  and  to 
try  to  reduce  it  to  some  logical  form,  to  think  of  in- 
cidents that  would  show  forth  the  idea  to  the  best 
advantage,  to  determine  the  main  course  of  the 
story,  and  now  and  again  to  write  down  "bits"  that 
occurred  to  me.  I  proceeded  in  this  manner  for 
some  weeks.  The  precious  "notion"  had  been  given 
me,  let  us  say,  toward  the  end  of  October,  but  it  was 
not  till  early  in  February  that  I  put  pen  to  paper  in 
dead  earnest,  and  launched  with  a  trembling  heart 
on  the  first  chapter.  And  then  the  trouble  began. 

ix 


Introduction 

For,  in  the  first  place,  I  had  vowed  myself,  it  will 
be  remembered,  to  a  change  of  style.  Or  rather,  I 
was  to  abandon  the  manner  in  which  "The  Three 
Impostors"  had  been  written,  which  was  not  my 
manner  but  Stevenson's  and  to  get  a  style,  or  some- 
thing like  a  style,  of  my  own.  The  gracious  round- 
ing of  the  sentence,  the  bright  balance  of  words,  the 
sonorous  rise  and  fall  of  the  cadences  were  done 
with;  no  more  of  costume;  all  was  to  be  plain,  every- 
day clothes.  But  it  was  a  hard  struggle.  The 
player  in  private  life  does  not  want  to  "take  the 
stage"  as  if  he  were  Charles  Surface  in  bloom-col- 
ored satin;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  wants  still  less 
to  enter  a  drawing  room  as  if  he  had  a  game  leg  and 
a  club  foot:  I  had  a  horrible  todo  with  my  sen- 
tences in  that  first  chapter.  The  old  rules  were 
gone,  the  new  ones  were  yet  to  learn  and  most  vilely 
I  sweated  at  the  task  of  learning  them.  The  manu- 
script of  that  first  chapter  was  a  mass  of  erasures, 
corrections,  interlineations.  But  somehow  it  was 
done,  and,  I  thought,  not  so  badly,  all  things  con- 
sidered. And  then  I  started,  more  hopefully,  at  the 
second  chapter.  And  then  I  was  done. 

I  have  said  that  I  had  planned  the  book  out  on 
paper,  that  I  had,  as  it  were,  drawn  it  to  scale,  de- 
vising and  arranging  a  due  succession  of  incidents 
and  events.  And  no  sooner  had  I  written  two  lines 
of  that  second  chapter,  according  to  plan,  than  I 
found  that  the  book  as  planned  could  not  be 


Introduction 

written  at  all.  My  clay  model  broke  Into  bits  in 
my  hand.  It  had  looked  all  right  in  the  clay,  but  in 
the  stone  it  most  certainly  would  not  do.  It  was  a 
horrible  moment. 

For  three  weeks  I  sat  down  night  after  night  with 
blank  paper  before  me.  Night  after  night  I  began 
to  write  that  second  chapter;  night  after  night  I 
groaned  and  shut  up  my  desk.  Sometimes  the 
night's  work  amounted  to  two  lines;  sometimes  to 
two  folios;  but  it  was  no  good.  There  was  neither 
life,  nor  fire,  nor  movement,  nor  reality  in  a  word 
of  it.  Here  was  I  with  one  chapter  of  the  book 
finished  and  all  the  rest  impossible.  But  all  the 
same  it  was  going  to  be  done.  I  was  as  stubborn 
in  those  days  as  my  good  bulldog,  Juggernaut;  and 
I  cannot  say  more  than  that. 

And  here  I  would  say  that  to  the  best  of  my  be- 
lief, I  was  brought  to  a  dead  stop  precisely  because 
I  had  explored  the  way  and  laid  it  out  so  thoroughly. 
I  have  told  how  I  rolled  the  "notion"  up  and  down 
and  round  about  in  my  mind;  how  I  planned  and 
plotted  and  blew  up  the  rocks  and  cut  away  the 
brushwood  and  felled  the  trees,  so  that  there  should 
be  no  difficulties  in  the  track;  and  there  was  the  mis- 
chief of  it.  For  the  truth  is,  that  for  me  at  any 
rate  literature  is  always  an  exploration.  The  relish 
of  it,  the  delight  of  it  are  indissolubly  bound  up  with 
the  sense  of  penetrating  into  a  new  world  and  an  un- 
discovered region,  of  standing  on  some  minor  peak 

xi 


Introduction 

in  Darien  and  looking  on  worlds  that  no  eye  has 
ever  seen  before.  And  this  must  be  the  sense  of 
the  scene  as  the  actual  words  are  written,  as  the  ink 
flows  from  the  pen — or  else  there  is  nothing  written 
that  matters  two  straws.  And  in  the  affair  of  this 
particular  bookt  I  had  taken  such  pains  in  explor- 
ing the  ground  that  when  I  came  to  write  it,  there 
was  nothing  left  to  explore.  Here  were  no 
miracles,  no  mysteries,  no  buried  treasures,  no  un- 
looked  for  wonders.  Everything  was  known,  every- 
thing familiar,  and  all  seemed  quite  devoid  of  signifi- 
cance. 

Still,  that  book  had  got  to  be  written,  and  was 
going  to  be  written.  And  one  happy  night  the  whole 
matter  of  that  famous  second  chapter  was  mani- 
fested to  me.  As  far  as  I  remember,  in  the  original 
design,  Lucian  was  at  this  point  to  be  packed  of  to 
London  to  the  miseries  of  the  inevitable  garret;  now 
it  seemed  that  there  were  further  adventures  for 
him  in  his  native  country.  I  thought  of  these  and 
wrote  them  and  so  got  the  opportunity  of  dwelling 
a  little  longer  among  the  dear  woods  and  the  domed 
hills  and  the  memorable  vales  of  my  native  Gwent, 
of  trying  once  more  to  set  down  some  faint  echoes 
of  the  inexpressive  song  that  the  beloved  land  al- 
ways sang  to  me  and  still  sings  across  all  the  waste 
of  weary  years.  Then  I  found  somewhere  or  other, 
the  recipe  for  the  "Roman  Chapter,"  an  attempted 
recreation  of  the  Roman  British  world  of  Isca 

xii 


Introduction 

Silurum,  C 'aerie on-on-Usk,  the  town  where  I  was 
born,  and  soaked  myself  so  thoroughly  in  the  vision 
of  the  old  golden  city — now  a  little  desolate  milage 
— and  listened  so  long  in  the  deep  green  of  Went- 
wood  for  the  clangour  of  the  marching  Legion  and 
for  the  noise  of  their  trumpets  that  I  grew  quite 
"dithery"  as  they  say  in  some  parts  of  England.  I 
would  go  out  on  my  dim  Bloomsbury  strolls,  deep  in 
my  dream,  and  would  "come  to  myself"  with  a  sud- 
den shock  in  Lamb's  Conduit  Street  or  Mecklen- 
burgh  Square  or  in  the  solitudes  of  Great  Coram 
Street,  realizing  certainly,  that  I  was  not,  in  actual- 
ity, in  the  Garden  of  Avallaunins  or  delaying  in  the 
Via  Nympharum  or  on  the  Pons  Saturni — it  is  called 
Pont  Sadwrn  to  this  day — but  utterly  at  a  loss  to 
know  exactly  where  I  was  or  what  I  was  doing,  with- 
out the  faintest  notion  of  the  various  positions  of 
north  and  south,  east  and  west,  and  not  at  all  clear 
as  to  how  I  was  to  get  home  to  Gray's  Inn  and  my 
lunch.  And  it  was  in  this  queer  way  that  the  fourth 
chapter  was  accomplished.  I  was  somewhat  proud 
of  it,  and  went  on  gaily  through  Chapters  Five,  Six 
and  Seven,  and  had  a  month's  holiday  in  Provence, 
and  came  back  to  finish  my  book,  feeling  confident 
and  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

Alas!  my  pride  had  a  deep  fall  indeed.  I  read 
over  those  last  three  chapters  and  saw  suddenly  that 
they  were  all  hopelessly  wrong,  that  they  would 
not  do  at  any  price,  that  I  had  turned,  unperceiving, 

xiii 


Introduction 

from  the  straight  path  by  ever  so  little,  and  had 
gone  on,  getting  farther  and  farther  away  from  the 
true  direction  till  the  way  was  hopelessly  lost.  I 
was  in  the  middle  of  a  black  wood  and  I  could  not 
see  any  path  out  of  it. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  The 
three  condemned  chapters  went  into  the  drawer  and 
I  began  over  again  from  the  end  of  Chapter  Four. 
Five  and  Six  were  done,  and  then  again  I  struggled 
desperately  for  many  weeks,  trying  to  find  the  last 
chapter.  False  tracks  again,  hopeless  efforts,  spoilt 
folios  thick  about  me  till  by  some  chance  or  another, 
I  know  not  how,  the  right  notion  was  given  me,  and 
I  wrote  the  seventh  and  last  chapter  in  a  couple  of 
nights.  Once  more  the  thought  of  the  old  land  had 
come  to  my  help;  the  book  was  finished.  It  had  oc- 
cupied from  first  to  last  the  labour  of  eighteen 
months. 

Then  I  began  to  send  the  manuscript  round  to 
the  publishers.  The  result  would  have  melted  the 
heart  of  the  sourest  cynic.  To  those  hard  men  of 
business,  as  they  are  sometimes  called,  time  was 
nothing,  kindness  everything.  They  wrote  me,  one 
after  another,  long  letters  in  small  writing  on  large 
quarto  paper.  They  all  implored  me,  as  I  loved 
them,  not  to  publish  this  book  because,  as  they  ex- 
plained, it  was  so  poor  and  weak  and  dull  that  its 
publication  would  ruin  what  little  reputation  I  had 
gained  before. 

xiv 


Introduction 

One  of  these  good  men  went  farther.  A  month 
or  two  after  he  had  refused  "The  Hill  of  Dreams'' 
on  folios  of  in  quarto  kindness,  I  saw  amongst  the 
"literary  announcements"  in  some  paper  a  para- 
graph which  interested  me  deeply.  It  ran  some- 
thing like  this: 

"Mr.  Blank — the  publisher — and  Mr.  Dash — an 
eminent  man  of  letters — have  got  hold  of  a  promis- 
ing idea  for  a  romance.  They  propose,  so  Mr. 
Blank  tells  me,  to  describe  the  adventures  of  a  lad 
who  lives  partly  in  the  life  of  today  and  partly  in  the 
Roman  world  of  the  second  century  of  our  era. 
The  plan  seems  a  novel  and  arresting  one  and  I 
look  forward  to  reading  the  book  next  spring. 
The  collaborators  have  not  yet  thought  of  a  title 
for  what  should  be  a  striking  story" 

I  chuckled.  I  knew  that  lad  and  whence  he 
came:  from  Chapter  Four  of  my  MS.  However, 
nothing  more  was  heard  of  him  in  his  revised  and 
improved  form.  "The  Hill  of  Dreams"  was  pub- 
lished in  1907,  ten  years  after  it  had  been  finished. 


The  Hill 
of   Dreams 


....    .  ..  .  I       • 

THERE  was  a  glow  in  the  sky  as  if  great 
furnace  doors  were  opened. 
But  all  the  afternoon  his  eyes  had 
looked  on  glamour;  he  had  strayed  in  fairyland. 
The  holidays  were  nearly  done,  and  Lucian  Taylor 
had  gone  out  resolved  to  lose  himself,  to  discover 
strange  hills  and  prospects  that  he  had  never  seen 
before.  The  air  was  still,  breathless,  exhausted 
after  heavy  rain,  and  the  clouds  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  moulded  of  lead.  No  breeze  blew  upon 
the  hill,  and  down  in  the  well  of  the  valley  not  a 
dry  leaf  stirred,  not  a  bough  shook  in  all  the  dark 
January  woods. 

About  a  mile  from  the  rectory  he  had  diverged 
from  the  main  road  by  an  opening  that  promised 
mystery  and  adventure.  It  was  an  old  neglected 
lane,  little  more  than  a  ditch,  worn  ten  feet  deep 
by  its  winter  waters,  and  shadowed  by  great  un- 
trimmed  hedges,  densely  woven  together.  On  each 
side  were  turbid  streams,  and  here  and  there  a  tor- 
rent of  water  gushed  down  the  banks,  flooding 
the  lane.  It  was  so  deep  and  dark  that  he  could  not 

3 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

get  a  glimpse  of  the  country  through  which  he  was 
passing,  but  the  way  went  down  and  down  to  some 
unconjectured  hollow. 

Perhaps  he  walked  two  miles  between  the  high 
walls  of  the  lane  before  its  descent  ceased,  but  he 
thrilled  with  the  sense  of  having  journeyed  very 
far,  all  the  long  way  from  the  known  to  the  un- 
known. He  had  come  as  it  were  into  the  bottom  of 
a  bowl  amongst  the  hills,  and  black  woods  shut  out 
the  world.  From  the  road  behind  him,  from  the 
road  before  him,  from  the  unseen  wells  beneath 
the  trees,  rivulets  of  waters  swelled  and  streamed 
down  towards  the  center,  to  the  brook  that  crossed 
the  lane.  Amid  the  dead  and  wearied  silence  of  the 
air,  beneath  leaden  and  motionless  clouds,  it  was 
strange  to  hear  such  a  tumult  of  gurgling  and  rush- 
ing water,  and  he  stood  for  a  while  on  the  quivering 
footbridge  and  watched  the  rush  of  dead  wood  and 
torn  branches  and  wisps  of  straw  all  hurrying  madly 
past  him,  to  plunge  into  the  heaped  spume,  the 
barmy  froth  that  had  gathered  against  a  fallen 
tree. 

Then  he  climbed  again,  and  went  up  between  lime- 
stone rocks,  higher  and  higher,  till  the  noise  of 
waters  became  indistinct,  a  faint  humming  like 
swarming  hives  in  summer.  He  walked  some  dis- 
tance on  level  ground,  till  there  was  a  break  in 
the  banks  and  a  stile  on  which  he  could  lean  and 
look  out.  He  found  himself,  as  he  had  hoped,  afar 

4 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  forlorn;  he  had  strayed  into  outland  and  occult 
territory.  From  the  eminence  of  the  lane,  skirting 
the  brow  of  a  hill,  he  looked  down  into  deep  valleys 
and  dingles,  and  beyond,  across  the  trees,  to  remoter 
country,  wild  bare  hills  and  dark  wooded  lands  meet- 
ing the  grey  still  sky.  Immediately  beneath  his 
feet  the  ground  sloped  steep  down  to  the  valley, 
a  hillside  of  close  grass  patched  with  dead  bracken, 
and  dotted  here  and  there  with  stunted  thorns,  and 
below  there  were  deep  oakwoods,  all  still  and  silent, 
and  lonely  as  if  no  one  ever  passed  that  way.  The 
grass  and  bracken  and  thorns  and  woods,  all  were 
brown  and  grey  beneath  the  leaden  sky;  and  as 
Lucian  looked  he  was  amazed,  as  though  he  were 
reading  a  wonderful  story,  the  meaning  of  which 
was  a  little  greater  than  his  understanding.  Then, 
like  the  hero  of  a  fairy-book,  he  went  on  and  on, 
catching  now  and  again  glimpses  of  the  amazing 
country  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and  per- 
ceiving rather  than  seeing  that  as  the  day  waned 
everything  grew  more  grey  and  sombre.  As  he 
advanced  he  heard  the  evening  sounds  of  the  farms, 
the  low  of  the  cattle,  and  the  barking  of  the  sheep- 
dogs; a  faint  thin  noise  from  far  away.  It  was 
growing  late,  and  as  the  shadows  blackened  he 
walked  faster,  till  once  more  the  lane  began  to  de- 
scend, there  was  a  sharp  turn,  and  he  found  himself, 
with  a  good  deal  of  relief,  and  a  little  disappoint- 
ment, on  familiar  ground.  He  had  nearly  de- 

5 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

scribed  a  circle  and  knew  this  end  of  the  lane  very 
well;  it  was  not  much  more  than  a  mile  from  home. 
He  walked  smartly  down  the  hill;  the  air  was  all 
glimmering  and  indistinct,  transmuting  trees  and 
hedges  into  ghostly  shapes,  and  the  walls  of  the 
White  House  farm  flickered  on  the  hillside,  as  if 
they  were  moving  towards  him.  Then  a  change 
came.  First,  a  little  breath  of  wind  brushed  with  a 
dry  whispering  sound  through  the  hedges,  the  few 
leaves  left  on  the  boughs  began  to  stir,  and  one  or 
two  danced  madly,  and  as  the  wind  freshened  and 
came  up  from  a  new  quarter,  the  sapless  branches 
above  rattled  against  one  another  like  bones.  The 
growing  breeze  seemed  to  clear  the  air  and  lighten 
it.  He  was  passing  the  stile  where  a  path  led  to  old 
Mrs.  Gibbon's  desolate  little  cottage,  in  the  middle 
of  the  fields,  at  some  distance  even  from  the  lane, 
and  he  saw  the  light  blue  smoke  of  her  chimney  rise 
distinct  above  the  gaunt  green-gage  trees,  against  a 
pale  band  that  was  broadening  along  the  horizon. 
As  he  passed  the  stile  with  his  head  bent,  and  his 
eyes  on  the  ground,  something  white  started  out 
from  the  black  shadow  of  the  hedge,  and  in  the 
strange  twilight,  now  tinged  with  a  flush  from  the 
west,  a  figure  seemed  to  swim  past  him  and  disap- 
pear. For  a  moment  he  wondered  who  it  could  be, 
the  light  was  so  flickering  and  unsteady,  so  unlike  the 
real  atmosphere  of  day,  when  he  recollected  it  was 
only  Annie  Morgan,  old  Morgan's  daughter  at  the 

6 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

White  House.  She  was  three  years  older  than  he, 
and  it  annoyed  him  to  find  that  though  she  was  only 
fifteen,  there  had  been  a  dreadful  increase  in  her 
height  since  the  summer  holidays.  He  had  got  to 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  lifting  up  his  eyes,  saw 
the  strange  changes  of  the  sky.  The  pale  band  had 
broadened  into  a  clear  vast  space  of  light,  and  above, 
the  heavy  leaden  clouds  were  breaking  apart  and 
driving  across  the  heaven  before  the  wind.  He 
stopped  to  watch,  and  looked  up  at  the  great  mound 
that  jutted  out  from  the  hills  into  mid-valley.  It 
was  a  natural  formation,  and  always  it  must  have 
had  something  of  the  form  of  a  fort,  but  its  steep- 
ness had  been  increased  by  Roman  art,  and  there 
were  high  banks  on  the  summit  which  Lucian's 
father  had  told  him  were  the  vallum  of  the  camp, 
and  a  deep  ditch  had  been  dug  to  the  north  to  sever 
it  from  the  hillside.  On  this  summit  oaks  had 
grown,  queer  stunted-looking  trees  with  twisted  and 
contorted  trunks,  and  writhing  branches;  and  these 
now  stood  out  black  against  the  lighted  sky.  And 
then  the  air  changed  once  more;  the  flush  increased, 
and  a  spot  like  blood  appeared  in  the  pond  by  the 
gate,  and  all  the  clouds  were  touched  with  fiery 
spots  and  dapples  of  flame;  here  and  there  it  looked 
as  if  awful  furnace  doors  were  being  opened. 

The  wind  blew  wildly,  and  it  came  up  through  the 
woods  with  a  noise  like  a  scream,  and  a  great 
oak  by  the  roadside  ground  its  boughs  together 

7 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

with  a  dismal  grating  jar.  As  the  red  gained  in 
the  sky,  the  earth  and  all  upon  it  glowed,  even  the 
grey  winter  fields  and  the  bare  hillsides  crimsoned, 
the  waterpools  were  cisterns  of  molten  brass,  and 
the  very  road  glittered.  He  was  wonder-struck, 
almost  aghast,  before  the  scarlet  magic  of  the  after- 
glow. The  old  Roman  fort  was  invested  with  fire; 
flames  from  heaven  were  smitten  about  its  walls, 
and  above  there  was  a  dark  floating  cloud,  like  a 
fume  of  smoke,  and  every  haggard  writhing  tree 
showed  as  black  as  midnight  against  the  blast  of  the 
furnace. 

When  he  got  home  he  heard  his  mother's  voice 
calling:  'Here's  Lucian  at  last.  Mary,  Master 
Lucian  has  come,  you  can  get  the  tea  ready.'  He 
told  a  long  tale  of  his  adventures,  and  felt  some- 
what mortified  when  his  father  seemed  perfectly 
acquainted  with  the  whole  course  of  the  lane,  and 
knew  the  names  of  the  wild  woods  through  which 
he  had  passed  in  awe. 

'You  must  have  gone  by  the  Darren,  I  sup- 
pose'— that  was  all  he  said.  'Yes,  I  noticed  the 
sunset;  we  shall  have  some  stormy  weather.  I  don't 
expect  to  see  many  in  church  to-morrow.' 

There  was  buttered  toast  for  tea  'because  it  was 
holidays.'  The  red  curtains  were  drawn,  and  a 
bright  fire  was  burning,  and  there  was  the  old  fa- 
miliar furniture,  a  little  shabby,  but  charming  from 
association.  It  was  much  pleasanter  than  the  cold 

8 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  squalid  schoolroom ;  and  much  better  to  be  read- 
ing Chambers' s  Journal  than  learning  Euclid;  and 
better  to  talk  to  his  father  and  mother  than  to  be 
answering  such  remarks  as:  'I  say,  Taylor,  I've 
torn  my  trousers;  how  much  do  you  charge  for 
mending?'  'Lucy,  dear,  come  quick  and  sew  this 
button  on  my  shirt.' 

That  night  the  storm  woke  him,  and  he  groped 
with  his  hands  amongst  the  bedclothes,  and  sat 
up,  shuddering,  not  knowing  where  he  was.  He 
had  seen  himself,  in  a  dream,  within  the  Roman 
fort,  working  some  dark  horror,  and  the  furnace 
doors  were  opened  and  a  blast  of  flame  from  heaven 
was  smitten  upon  him. 

Lucian  went  slowly,  but  not  discreditably,  up 
the  school,  gaining  prizes  now  and  again,  and  fall- 
ing in  love  more  and  more  with  useless  reading  and 
unlikely  knowledge.  He  did  his  elegiacs  and  iam- 
bics well  enough,  but  he  preferred  exercising  himself 
in  the  rhymed  Latin  of  the  middle  ages.  He  liked 
history,  but  he  loved  to  meditate  on  a  land  laid 
waste,  Britain  deserted  by  the  legions,  the  rare  pave- 
ments riven  by  frost,  Celtic  magic  still  brooding  on 
the  wild  hills  and  in  the  black  depths  of  the  forest, 
the  rosy  marbles  stained  with  rain,  and  the  walls 
growing  grey.  The  masters  did  not  encourage  these 
researches;  a  pure  enthusiasm,  they  felt,  should  be 
for  cricket  and  football,  the  dilettanti  might  even 

9 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

play  fives  and  read  Shakespeare  without  blame,  but 
healthy  English  boys  should  have  nothing  to  do  with 
decadent  periods.  He  was  once  found  guilty  of 
recommending  Villon  to  a  school-fellow  named 
Barnes.  Barnes  tried  to  extract  unpleasantness 
from  the  text  during  preparation,  and  rioted  in  his 
place,  owing  to  his  incapacity  for  the  language. 
The  matter  was  a  serious  one;  the  headmaster  had 
never  heard  of  Villon,  and  the  culprit  gave  up  the 
name  of  his  literary  admirer  without  remorse. 
Hence,  sorrow  for  Lucian,  and  complete  immunity 
for  the  miserable  illiterate  Barnes,  who  resolved  to 
confine  his  researches  to  the  Old  Testament,  a  book 
which  the  headmaster  knew  well.  As  for  Lucian, 
he  plodded  on,  learning  his  work  decently,  and  some- 
times doing  very  creditable  Latin  and  Greek  prose. 
His  school-fellows  thought  him  quite  mad,  and  toler- 
ated him,  and  indeed  were  very  kind  to  him  in  their 
barbarous  manner.  He  often  remembered  in  after 
life  acts  of  generosity  and  good  nature  done  by 
wretches  like  Barnes,  who  had  no  care  for  old  French 
nor  for  curious  metres,  and  such  recollections  al- 
ways moved  him  to  emotion.  Travellers  tell  such 
tales;  cast  upon  cruel  shores  amongst  savage  races, 
they  have  found  no  little  kindness  and  warmth  of 
hospitality. 

He  looked  forward  to  the  holidays  as  joyfully 
as  the  rest  of  them.  Barnes  and  his  friend  Duscot 
used  to  tell  him  their  plans  and  anticipations;  they 

10 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

were  going  home  to  brothers  and  sisters,  and  to 
cricket,  more  cricket,  or  to  football,  more  football, 
and  in  the  winter  there  were  parties  and  jollities  of 
all  sorts.  In  return  he  would  announce  his  intention 
of  studying  the  Hebrew  language,  or  perhaps  Prov- 
engal,  with  a  walk  up  a  bare  and  desolate  mountain 
by  way  of  open-air  amusement,  and  on  a  rainy  day 
for  choice.  Whereupon  Barnes  would  impart  to 
Duscot  his  confident  belief  that  old  Taylor  was  quite 
cracked.  It  was  a  queer,  funny  life  that  of  school, 
so  very  unlike  anything  in  Tom  Brown.  He  once 
saw  the  headmaster  patting  the  head  of  the  bishop's 
little  boy,  while  he  called  him  'my  little  man,'  and 
smiled  hideously.  He  told  the  tale  grotesquely  in 
the  lower  fifth  room  the  same  day,  and  earned  much 
applause,  but  forfeited  all  liking  directly  by  propos- 
ing a  voluntary  course  of  scholastic  logic.  One  bar- 
barian threw  him  to  the  ground  and  another  jumped 
on  him,  but  it  was  done  very  pleasantly.  There 
were,  indeed,  some  few  of  a  worse  class  in  the 
school,  solemn  sycophants,  prigs  perfected  from 
tender  years,  who  thought  life  already  'serious,'  and 
yet,  as  the  headmaster  said,  were  'joyous,  manly 
young  fellows.'  Some  of  these  dressed  for  din- 
ner at  home,  and  talked  of  dances  when  they 
came  back  in  January.  But  this  virulent  sort  was 
comparatively  infrequent,  and  achieved  great  suc- 
cess in  after  life.  Taking  his  school  days  on  the 
whole,  he  always  spoke  up  for  the  system,  and  years 

II 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

afterwards  he  described  with  enthusiasm  the  strong 
beer  at  a  roadside  tavern,  some  way  out  of  the  town. 
But  he  always  maintained  that  the  taste  for  tobacco, 
acquired  in  early  life,  was  the  great  note  of  the 
English  Public  School. 

Three  years  after  Lucian's  discovery  of  the  nar- 
row lane  and  the  vision  of  the  flaming  fort,  the  Aug- 
ust holidays  brought  him  home  at  a  time  of  great 
heat.  It  was  one  of  those  memorable  years  of 
English  weather,  when  some  Provengal  spell  seems 
wreathed  round  the  island  in  the  northern  sea,  and 
the  grasshoppers  chirp  loudly  as  the  cicadas,  the 
hills  smell  of  rosemary,  and  white  walls  of  old  farm- 
houses blaze  in  the  sunlight  as  if  they  stood  in  Aries 
or  Avignon  or  famed  Tarascon  by  Rhone. 

Lucian's  father  was  late  at  the  station,  and  con- 
sequently Lucian  bought  the  Confessions  of  an  Eng- 
lish Opium  Eater  which  he  saw  on  the  bookstall. 
When  his  father  did  drive  up,  Lucian  noticed  that 
the  old  trap  had  had  a  new  coat  of  dark  paint,  and 
that  the  pony  looked  advanced  in  years. 

4I  was  afraid  that  I  should  be  late,  Lucian,'  said 
his  father,  'though  I  made  old  Polly  go  like  any- 
thing. I  was  just  going  to  tell  George  to  put  her 
into  the  trap  when  young  Philip  Harris  came  to  me 
in  a  terrible  state.  He  said  his  father  fell  down 
'all  of  a  sudden  like'  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  and 
they  couldn't  make  him  speak,  and  would  I  please 
to  come  and  see  him.  So  I  had  to  go,  though  I 

12 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

couldn't  do  anything  for  the  poor  fellow.  They 
had  sent  for  Dr.  Burrows,  and  I  am  afraid  he  will 
find  it  a  bad  case  of  sunstroke.  The  old  people  say 
they  never  remember  such  a  heat  before.' 

The  pony  jogged  steadily  along  the  burning  turn- 
pike road,  taking  revenge  for  the  hurrying  on  the 
way  to  the  station.  The  hedges  were  white  with 
the  limestone  dust,  and  the  vapour  of  heat  palpi- 
tated over  the  fields.  Lucian  showed  his  Confes- 
sions to  his  father,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  beauti- 
ful bits  he  had  already  found.  Mr.  Taylor  knew 
the  book  well — had  read  it  many  years  before.  In- 
deed he  was  almost  as  difficult  to  surprise  as  that 
character  in  Daudet,  who  had  one  formula  for  all 
the  chances  of  life,  and  when  he  saw  the  drowned 
Academician  dragged  out  of  the  river,  merely  ob- 
served 'J'ai  vu  tout  qa'  Mr.  Taylor  the  parson,  as 
his  parishioners  called  him,  had  read  the  fine  books 
and  loved  the  hills  and  woods,  and  now  knew  no 
more  of  pleasant  or  sensational  surprises.  Indeed 
the  living  was  much  depreciated  in  value,  and  his 
own  private  means  were  reduced  almost  to  vanish- 
ing point,  and  under  such  circumstances  the  great 
style  loses  many  of  its  finer  savours.  He  was  very 
fond  of  Lucian,  and  cheered  by  his  return,  but  in  the 
evening  he  would  be  a  sad  man  again,  with  his  head 
resting  on  one  hand,  and  eyes  reproaching  sorry 
fortune. 

Nobody  called   out   'Here's  your  master   with 

13 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Master  Lucian:  you  can  get  tea  ready,'  when  the 
pony  jogged  up  to  the  front  door.  His  mother  had 
been  dead  a  year,  and  a  cousin  kept  house.  She  was 
a  respectable  person  called  Deacon,  of  middle  age, 
and  ordinary  standards;  and,  consequently,  there 
was  cold  mutton  on  the  table.  There  was  a  cake, 
but  nothing  of  flour,  baked  in  ovens,  would  rise  at 
Miss  Deacon's  evocation.  Still,  the  meal  was  laid 
in  the  beloved  'parlour,'  with  the  view  of  hills  and 
valleys  and  climbing  woods  from  the  open  window, 
and  the  old  furniture  was  still  pleasant  to  see,  and 
the  old  books  in  the  shelves  had  many  memories. 
One  of  the  most  respected  of  the  armchairs  had  be- 
come weak  in  the  castors  and  had  to  be  artfully 
propped  up,  but  Lucian  found  it  very  comfortable 
after  the  hard  forms.  When  tea  was  over  he  went 
out  and  strolled  in  the  garden  and  orchards,  and 
looked  over  the  stile  down  into  the  brake,  where 
foxgloves  and  bracken  and  broom  mingled  with  the 
hazel  undergrowth,  where  he  knew  of  secret  glades 
and  untracked  recesses,  deep  in  the  woven  green,  the 
cabinets  for  many  years  of  his  lonely  meditations. 
Every  path  about  his  home,  every  field  and  hedge- 
row had  dear  and  friendly  memories  for  him;  and 
the  odour  of  the  meadowsweet  was  better  than  the 
incense  steaming  in  the  sunshine.  He  loitered,  and 
hung  over  the  stile  till  the  far-off  woods  began  to 
turn  purple,  till  the  white  mists  were  wreathing  in 
the  valley. 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Day  after  day,  through  all  that  August,  morn- 
ing and  evening  were  wrapped  in  haze;  day  after 
day  the  earth  shimmered  in  the  heat,  and  the  air  was 
strange,  unfamiliar.  As  he  wandered  in  the  lanes 
and  sauntered  by  the  cool  sweet  verge  of  the  woods, 
he  saw  and  felt  that  nothing  was  common  or  accus- 
tomed, for  the  sunlight  transfigured  the  meadows 
and  changed  all  the  form  of  the  earth.  Under  the 
violent  Provencal  sun,  the  elms  and  beeches  looked 
exotic  trees,  and  in  the  early  morning  when  the 
mists  were  thick  the  hills  had  put  on  an  unearthly 
shape. 

The  one  adventure  of  the  holidays  was  the  visit 
to  the  Roman  fort,  to  that  fantastic  hill  about  whose 
steep  bastions  and  haggard  oaks  he  had  seen  the 
flames  of  sunset  writhing  nearly  three  years  before. 
Ever  since  that  Saturday  evening  in  January,  the 
lonely  valley  had  been  a  desirable  place  to  him;  he 
had  watched  the  green  battlements  in  summer  and 
winter  weather,  had  seen  the  heaped  mounds  rising 
dimly  amidst  the  drifting  rain,  had  marked  the  vio- 
lent height  swim  up  from  the  ice-white  mists  of 
summer  evenings,  had  watched  the  fairy  bulwarks 
glimmer  and  vanish  in  hovering  April  twilight.  In 
the  hedge  of  the  lane  there  was  a  gate  on  which  he 
used  to  lean  and  look  down  south  to  where  the  hill 
surged  up  so  suddenly,  its  summit  defined  on  summer 
evenings  not  only  by  the  rounded  ramparts  but  by 
the  ring  of  dense  green  foliage  that  marked  the  cir- 

15 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

cle  of  oak  trees.  Higher  up  the  lane,  on  the  way 
he  had  come  that  Saturday  afternoon,  one  could 
see  the  white  walls  of  Morgan's  farm  on  the  hill- 
side to  the  north,  and  on  the  south  there  was  the 
stile  with  the  view  of  old  Mrs.  Gibbon's  cottage 
smoke;  but  down  in  the  hollow,  looking  over  the 
gate,  there  was  no  hint  of  human  work,  except  those 
green  and  antique  battlements,  on  which  the  oaks 
stood  in  circle,  guarding  the  inner  wood. 

The  ring  of  the  fort  drew  him  with  stronger  fas- 
cination during  that  hot  August  weather.  Standing, 
or  as  his  headmaster  would  have  said,  mooning 
by  the  gate,  and  looking  into  that  enclosed  and 
secret  valley,  it  seemed  to  his  fancy  as  if  there  were 
a  halo  about  the  hill,  an  aureole  that  played  like 
flame  around  it.  One  afternoon  as  he  gazed  from 
his  station  by  the  gate  the  sheer  sides  and  the  swell- 
ing bulwarks  were  more  than  ever  things  of  en- 
chantment; the  green  oak  ring  stood  out  against  the 
sky  as  still  and  bright  as  in  a  picture,  and  Lucian, 
in  spite  of  his  respect  for  the  law  of  trespass,  slid 
over  the  gate.  The  farmers  and  their  men  were 
busy  on  the  uplands  with  the  harvest,  and  the  ad- 
venture was  irresistible.  At  first  he  stole  along 
by  the  brook  in  the  shadow  of  the  alders,  where  the 
grass  and  the  flowers  of  wet  meadows  grew  richly; 
but  as  he  drew  nearer  to  the  fort,  and  its  height  now 
rose  sheer  above  him,  he  left  all  shelter,  and  begart 
desperately  to  mount.  There  was  not  a  breath  of 

16 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

wind;  the  sunlight  shone  down  on  the  bare  hillside; 
the  loud  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers  was  the  only 
sound.  It  was  a  steep  ascent  and  grew  steeper  as 
the  valley  sank  away.  He  turned  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  down  towards  the  stream  which  now 
seemed  to  wind  remote  between  the  alders;  above 
the  valley  there  were  small  dark  figures  moving 
in  the  cornfield,  and  now  and  again  there  came  the 
faint  echo  of  a  high-pitched  voice  singing  through 
the  air  as  on  a  wire.  He  was  wet  with  heat;  the 
sweat  streamed  off  his  face,  and  he  could  feel  it 
trickling  all  over  his  body.  But  above  him  the 
green  bastions  rose  defiant,  and  the  dark  ring  of 
oaks  promised  coolness.  He  pressed  on,  and 
higher,  and  at  last  began  to  crawl  up  the  vallum,  on 
hands  and  knees,  grasping  the  turf  and  here  and 
there  the  roots  that  had  burst  through  the  red 
earth.  And  then  he  lay,  panting  with  deep  breaths, 
on  the  summit. 

Within  the  fort  it  was  all  dusky  and  cool  and 
hollow;  it  was  as  if  one  stood  at  the  bottom  of  a 
great  cup.  Within,  the  wall  seemed  higher  than 
without,  and  the  ring  of  oaks  curved  up  like  a  dark 
green  vault.  There  were  nettles  growing  thick 
and  rank  in  the  foss;  they  looked  different  from 
the  common  nettles  in  the  lanes,  and  Lucian,  letting 
his  hand  touch  a  leaf  by  accident,  felt  the  sting  burn 
like  fire.  Beyond  the  ditch  there  was  an  under- 
growth, a  dense  thicket  -of  trees,  stunted  and  old, 

17 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

crooked  and  withered  by  the  winds  into  awkward 
and  ugly  forms;  beech  and  oak  and  hazel  and  ash 
and  yew  twisted  and  so  shortened  and  deformed  that 
each  seemed,  like  the  nettle,  of  no  common  kind. 
He  began  to  fight  his  way  through  the  ugly  growth, 
stumbling  and  getting  hard  knocks  from  the  re- 
bound of  the  twisted  boughs.  His  foot  struck  once 
or  twice  against  something  harder  than  wood,  and 
looking  down  he  saw  stones  white  with  the  leprosy 
of  age,  but  still  showing  the  work  of  the  axe.  And 
farther,  the  roots  of  the  stunted  trees  gripped  the 
foot-high  relics  of  a  wall;  and  a  round  heap  of  fallen 
stones  nourished  rank,  unknown  herbs,  that  smelt 
poisonous.  The  earth  was  black  and  unctuous,  and 
bubbling  under  the  feet,  left  no  track  behind.  From 
it,  in  the  darkest  places  where  the  shadow  was  thick- 
est, swelled  the  growth  of  an  abominable  fungus, 
making  the  still  air  sick  with  its  corrupt  odour,  and 
he  shuddered  as  he  felt  the  horrible  thing  pulped 
beneath  his  feet.  Then  there  was  a  gleam  of  sun- 
light, and  as  he  thrust  the  last  boughs  apart,  he 
stumbled  into  the  open  space  in  the  heart  of  the 
camp.  It  was  a  lawn  of  sweet  close  turf  in  the 
centre  of  the  matted  brake,  of  clean  firm  earth  from 
which  no  shameful  growth  sprouted,  and  near  the 
middle  of  the  glade  was  a  stump  of  a  felled  yew- 
tree,  left  untrimmed  by  the  woodman.  Lucian 
thought  it  must  have  been  made  for  a  seat;  a 
crooked  bough  through  which  a  little  sap  still  ran 

18 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

was  a  support  for  the  back,  and  he  sat  down  and 
rested  after  his  toil.  It  was  not  really  so  comfort- 
able a  seat  as  one  of  the  school  forms,  but  the  satis- 
faction was  to  find  anything  at  all  that  would  serve 
for  a  chair.  He  sat  there,  still  panting  after  the 
climb  and  his  struggle  through  the  dank  and  jungle- 
like  thicket,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were  growing  hotter 
and  hotter;  the  sting  of  the  nettle  was  burning  his 
hand,  and  the  tingling  fire  seemed  to  spread  all  over 
his  body. 

Suddenly,  he  knew  that  he  was  alone.  Not 
merely  solitary;  that  he  had  often  been  amongst 
the  woods  and  deep  in  the  lanes;  but  now  it  was 
wholly  different  and  a  very  strange  sensation.  He 
thought  of  the  valley  winding  far  below  him,  all  its 
fields  by  the  brook  green  and  peaceful  and  still, 
without  path  or  track.  Then  he  had  climbed  the 
abrupt  surge  of  the  hill,  and  passing  the  green 
and  swelling  battlements,  the  ring  of  oaks,  and 
the  matted  thickets,  had  come  to  the  central  space. 
And  behind  there  were,  he  knew,  many  desolate 
fields,  wild  as  common,  untrodden,  unvisited.  He 
was  utterly  alone.  He  still  grew  hotter  as  he  sat 
on  the  stump,  and  at  last  lay  down  at  full  length 
on  the  soft  grass,  and  more  at  his  ease  felt  the 
waves  of  heat  pass  over  his  body. 

And  then  he  began  to  dream,  to  let  his  fancies 
stray  over  half-imagined,  delicious  things,  indulg- 
ing a  virgin  mind  in  its  wanderings.  The  hot  air 

19 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

seemed  to  beat  upon  him  in  palpable  waves,  and 
the  nettle  sting  tingled  and  itched  intolerably;  and 
he  was  alone  upon  the  fairy  hill,  within  the  great 
mounds,  within  the  ring  of  oaks,  deep  in  the  heart 
of  the  matted  thicket.  Slowly  and  timidly  he  be- 
gan to  untie  his  boots,  fumbling  with  the  laces,  and 
glancing  all  the  while  on  every  side  at  the  ugly  mis- 
shapen trees  that  hedged  the  lawn.  Not  a  branch 
was  straight,  not  one  was  free,  but  all  were  inter- 
laced and  grew  one  about  another;  and  just  above 
ground,  where  the  cankered  stems  joined  the  protu- 
berant roots,  there  were  forms  that  imitated  the 
human  shape,  and  faces  and  twining  limbs  that 
amazed  him.  Green  mosses  were  hair,  and  tresses 
were  stark  in  grey  lichen;  a  twisted  root  swelled  into 
a  limb ;  in  the  hollows  of  the  rotted  bark  he  saw  the 
masks  of  men.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and  fascinated 
by  the  simulacra  of  the  wood,  and  could  not  see  his 
hands,  and  so  at  last,  and  suddenly,  it  seemed,  he 
lay  in  the  sunlight,  beautiful  with  his  olive  skin, 
dark  haired,  dark  eyed,  the  gleaming  bodily  vision 
of  a  strayed  faun. 

Quick  flames  now  quivered  in  the  substance  of 
his  nerves,  hints  of  mysteries,  secrets  of  life  passed 
trembling  through  his  brain,  unknown  desires  stung 
him.  As  he  gazed  across  the  turf  and  into  the 
thicket,  the  sunshine  seemed  really  to  become  green, 
and  the  contrast  between  the  bright  glow  poured  on 
the  lawn  and  the  black  shadow  of  the  brake  made  an 

20 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

odd  flickering  light,  in  which  all  the  grotesque  pos- 
tures of  stem  and  root  began  to  stir;  the  wood  was 
alive.  The  turf  beneath  him  heaved  and  sank  as 
with  the  deep  swell  of  the  sea.  He  fell  asleep,  and 
lay  still  on  the  grass,  in  the  midst  of  the  thicket. 

He  found  out  afterwards  that  he  must  have  slept 
for  nearly  an  hour.  The  shadows  had  changed 
when  he  awoke;  his  senses  came  to  him  with  a  sud- 
den shock,  and  he  sat  up  and  stared  at  his  bare  limbs 
in  stupid  amazement.  He  huddled  on  his  clothes 
and  laced  his  boots,  wondering  what  folly  had  be- 
set him.  Then,  while  he  stood  indecisive,  hesita- 
ting, his  brain  a  whirl  of  puzzled  thought,  his  body 
trembling,  his  hands  shaking;  as  with  electric  heat, 
sudden  remembrance  possessed  him.  A  flaming 
blush  shone  red  on  his  cheeks,  and  glowed  and 
thrilled  through  his  limbs.  As  he  awoke,  a  brief 
and  slight  breeze  had  stirred  in  a  nook  of  the  matted 
boughs,  and  there  was  a  glinting  that  might  have 
been  the  flash  of  sudden  sunlight  across  shadow,  and 
the  branches  rustled  and  murmured  for  a  moment, 
perhaps  at  the  wind's  passage. 

He  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  cried  to  his  visi- 
tant to  return;  he  entreated  the  dark  eyes  that  had 
shone  over  him,  and  the  scarlet  lips  that  had  kissed 
him.  And  then  panic  fear  rushed  into  his  heart,  and 
he  ran  blindly,  dashing  through  the  wood.  He 
climbed  the  vallum,  and  looked  out,  crouching,  lest 
anybody  should  see  him.  Only  the  shadows  were 

21 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

changed,  and  a  breath  of  cooler  air  mounted  from 
the  brook;  the  fields  were  still  and  peaceful,  the 
black  figures  moved,  far  away,  amidst  the  corn,  and 
the  faint  echo  of  the  high-pitched  voices  sang  thin 
and  distant  on  the  evening  wind.  Across  the 
stream,  in  the  cleft  on  the  hill,  opposite  to  the  fort, 
the  blue  wood  smoke  stole  up  a  spiral  pillar  from 
the  chimney  of  old  Mrs.  Gibbon's  cottage.  He  be- 
gan to  run  full  tilt  down  the  steep  surge  of  the 
hill,  and  never  stopped  till  he  was  over  the  gate  and 
in  the  lane  again.  As  he  looked  back,  down  the 
valley  to  the  south,  and  saw  the  violent  ascent,  the 
green  swelling  bulwarks,  and  the  dark  ring  of  oaks ; 
the  sunlight  seemed  to  play  about  the  fort  with  an 
aureole  of  flame. 

'Where  on  earth  have  you  been  all  this  time, 
Lucian,'  said  his  cousin  when  he  got  home,  'Why, 
you  look  quite  ill.  It  is  really  madness  of  you  to 
go  walking  in  such  weather  as  this.  I  wonder  you 
haven't  got  a  sunstroke.  And  the  tea  must  be 
nearly  cold.  I  couldn't  keep  your  father  waiting, 
you  know.' 

He  muttered  something  about  being  rather  tired, 
and  sat  down  to  his  tea.  It  was  not  cold,  for  the 
'cosy'  had  been  put  over  the  pot,  but  it  was  black 
and  bitter  strong,  as  his  cousin  expressed  it.  The 
draught  was  unpalatable,  but  it  did  him  good,  and 
the  thought  came  with  great  consolation  that  he  had 

22 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

only  been  asleep  and  dreaming  queer,  nightmarish 
dreams.  He  shook  off  all  his  fancies  with  resolu- 
tion, and  thought  the  loneliness  of  the  camp,  and 
the  burning  sunlight,  and  possibly  the  nettle  sting, 
which  still  tingled  most  abominably,  must  have  been 
the  only  factors  in  his  farrago  of  impossible  recol- 
lections. He  remembered  that  when  he  had  felt  the 
sting,  he  had  seized  a  nettle  with  thick  folds  of  his 
handkerchief,  and  having  twisted  off  a  good  length, 
had  put  it  in  his  pocket  to  show  his  father.  Mr. 
Taylor  was  almost  interested  when  he  came  in  from 
his  evening  stroll  about  the  garden  and  saw  the 
specimen. 

'Where  did  you  manage  to  come  across  that, 
Lucian?'  he  said.  'You  haven't  been  to  Caermaen, 
have  you?' 

'No.     I  got  it  in  the  Roman  fort  by  the  common.' 

'Oh,  the  twyn.  You  must  have  been  trespassing 
then.  Do  you  know  what  it  is?' 

'No.  I  thought  it  looked  different  from  the 
common  nettles.' 

'Yes;  it's  a  Roman  nettle — urtica  pilulifera.  It's 
a  rare  plant.  Burrows  says  it's  to  be  found  at  Caer- 
maen, but  I  was  never  able  to  come  across  it.  I 
must  add  it  to  the  flora  of  the  parish.' 

Mr.  Taylor  had  begun  to  compile  a  flora  accom- 
panied by  a  hortus  siccus,  but  both  stayed  on  high 
shelves  dusty  and  fragmentary.  He  put  the  speci- 

23 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

men  on  his  desk,  intending  to  fasten  it  in  the  book, 
but  the  maid  swept  it  away,  dry  and  withered,  in  a 
day  or  two. 

Lucian  tossed  and  cried  out  in  his  sleep  that  night, 
and  the  awakening  in  the  morning  was,  in  a  measure, 
a  renewal  of  the  awakening  in  the  fort.  But  the 
impression  was  not  so  strong,  and  in  a  plain  room  it 
seemed  all  delirium,  a  phantasmagoria.  He  had  to 
go  down  to  Caermaen  in  the  afternoon,  for  Mrs. 
Dixon,  the  vicar's  wife,  had  'commanded'  his  pres- 
ence at  tea.  Mr.  Dixon,  though  fat  and  short  and 
clean  shaven,  ruddy  of  face,  was  a  safe  man,  with 
no  extreme  views  on  anything.  He  'deplored'  all 
extreme  party  convictions,  and  thought  the  great 
needs  of  our  beloved  Church  were  conciliation, 
moderation,  and  above  all  'amolgamation' — so  he 
pronounced  the  word.  Mrs.  Dixon  was  tall,  impos- 
ing, splendid,  well  fitted  for  the  episcopal  order,  with 
gifts  that  would  have  shone  at  the  palace.  There 
were  daughters,  who  studied  German  Literature, 
and  thought  Miss  Frances  Ridley  Havergal  wrote 
poetry,  but  Lucian  had  no  fear  of  them ;  he  dreaded 
the  boys.  Everybody  said  they  were  such  fine  manly 
fellows,  such  gentlemanly  boys,  with  such  a  good 
manner,  sure  to  get  on  in  the  world.  Lucian  had 
said  'Bother!'  in  a  very  violent  manner  when  the 
gracious  invitation  was  conveyed  to  him,  but  there 
was  no  getting  out  of  it.  Miss  Deacon  did  her  best 
to  make  him  look  smart;  his  ties  were  all  so  disgrace- 

24 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ful  that  she  had  to  supply  the  want  with  a  narrow 
ribbon  of  a  sky-blue  tint;  and  she  brushed  him  so 
long  and  so  violently  that  he  quite  understood  why  a 
horse  sometimes  bites  and  sometimes  kicks  the 
groom.  He  set  out  between  two  and  three  in  a 
gloomy  frame  of  mind;  he  knew  too  well  what  spend- 
ing the  afternoon  with  honest  manly  boys  meant. 
He  found  the  reality  more  lurid  than  his  anticipa- 
tion. The  boys  were  in  the  field,  and  the  first  re- 
mark he  heard  when  he  got  in  sight  of  the  group 
was: 

'Hullo,  Lucian,  how  much  for  the  tie?'  'Fine 
tie,'  another,  a  stranger,  observed.  'You  bagged  it 
from  the  kitten,  didn't  you?' 

Then  they  made  up  a  game  of  cricket,  and  he 
was  put  in  first.  He  was  1.  b.  w.  in  the  second 
over,  so  they  all  said,  and  had  to  field  for  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon.  Arthur  Dixon,  who  was  about 
his  own  age,  forgetting  all  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
told  him  he  was  a  beastly  muff  when  he  missed  a 
catch,  rather  a  difficult  catch.  He  missed  several 
catches,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  always  pant- 
ing after  balls,  which,  as  Edward  Dixon  said,  any 
fool,  even  a  baby  could  have  stopped.  At  last  the 
game  broke  up,  solely  from  Lucian's  lack  of  skill, 
as  everybody  declared.  Edward  Dixon,  who  was 
thirteen,  and  had  a  swollen  red  face  and  a  project- 
ing eye,  wanted  to  fight  him  for  spoiling  the  game, 
and  the  others  agreed  that  he  funked  the  fight  in  a 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

rather  dirty  manner.  The  strange  boy,  who  was 
called  De  Card,  and  was  understood  to  be  distantly 
related  to  Lord  De  Carti  of  M'Carthytown,  said 
openly  that  the  fellows  at  his  place  wouldn't  stand 
such  a  sneak  for  five  minutes.  So  the  afternoon 
passed  off  very  pleasantly  indeed,  till  it  was  time  to 
go  into  the  vicarage  for  weak  tea,  home-made  cake, 
and  unripe  plums.  He  got  away  at  last.  As  he 
went  out  at  the  gate  he  heard  De  Card's  final  ob- 
servation: 

'We  like  to  dress  well  at  our  place.  His  gov- 
ernor must  be  beastly  poor  to  let  him  go  about  like 
that.  D'ye  see  his  trousers  are  all  ragged  at  heel? 
Is  old  Taylor  a  gentleman?' 

It  had  been  a  very  gentlemanly  afternoon,  but 
there  was  a  certain  relief  when  the  vicarage  was 
far  behind,  and  the  evening  smoke  of  the  little 
town,  once  the  glorious  capital  of  Siluria,  hung  haze- 
like  over  the  ragged  roofs  and  mingled  with  the 
river  mist.  He  looked  down  from  the  height  of 
the  road  on  the  huddled  horses,  saw  the  points  of 
light  start  out  suddenly  from  the  cottages  on  the 
hillside  beyond,  and  gazed  at  the  long  lovely  valley 
fading  in  the  twilight,  till  the  darkness  came  and  all 
that  remained  was  the  sombre  ridge  of  the  forest. 
The  way  was  pleasant  through  the  solemn  scented 
lane,  with  glimpses  of  dim  country,  the  vague  mys- 
tery of  night  overshadowing  the  woods  and  mead- 
ows. A  warm  wind  blew  gusts  of  odour  from  the 

26 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

meadowsweet  by  the  brook,  now  and  then  bee  and 
beetle  span  homeward  through  the  air,  booming  a 
deep  note  as  from  a  great  organ  far  away,  and 
from  the  verge  of  the  wood  came  the  'who-oo,  who- 
oo,  who-oo'  of  the  owls,  a  wild  strange  sound  that 
mingled  with  the  whirr  and  rattle  of  the  night-jar, 
deep  in  the  bracken.  The  moon  swam  up  through 
the  films  of  misty  clouds,  and  hung,  a  golden  glorious 
lantern,  in  mid-air;  and,  set  in  the  dusky  hedge,  the 
little  green  fires  of  the  glowworms  appeared.  He 
sauntered  slowly  up  the  lane,  drinking  in  the  re- 
ligion of  the  scene,  and  thinking  the  country  by  night 
as  mystic  and  wonderful  as  a  dimly-lit  cathedral. 
He  had  quite  forgotten  the  'manly  young  fellows' 
and  their  sports,  and  only  wished  as  the  land  began 
to  shimmer  and  gleam  in  the  moonlight  that  he  knew 
by  some  medium  of  words  or  colour  how  to  repre- 
sent the  loveliness  about  his  way. 

'Had  a  pleasant  evening,  Lucian?'  said  his  father 
when  he  came  in. 

'Yes,  I  had  a  nice  walk  home.  Oh,  in  the  after- 
noon we  played  cricket.  I  didn't  care  for  it  much. 
There  was  a  boy  named  De  Carti  there,  he  is  stay- 
ing with  the  Dixons.  Mrs.  Dixon  whispered  to  me 
when  we  were  going  in  to  tea,  "He's  a  second  cousin 
of  Lord  De  Card's,"  and  she  looked  quite  gravely 
as  if  she  were  in  church.' 

The  parson  grinned  grimly  and  lit  his  old  pipe. 

'Baron  De  Carti's  great-grandfather  was  a  Dub- 
27 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

lin  attorney,'  he  remarked.  'Which  his  name  was 
Jeremiah  M'Carthy.  His  prejudiced  fellow-citi- 
zens called  him  the  Unjust  Steward,  also  the  Bloody 
Attorney,  and  I  believe  that  "to  hell  with 
M'Carthy"  was  quite  a  popular  cry  about  the  time 
of  the  Union.' 

Mr.  Taylor  was  a  man  of  very  wide  and  irregu- 
lar reading  and  a  tenacious  memory;  he  often  used 
to  wonder  why  he  had  not  risen  in  the  Church.  He 
had  once  told  Mr.  Dixon  a  singular  and  drolatique 
anecdote  concerning  the  bishop's  college  days,  and 
he  never  discovered  why  the  prelate  did  not  bow  ac- 
cording to  his  custom  when  the  name  of  Taylor  was 
called  at  the  next  visitation.  Some  people  said  the 
reason  was  lighted  candles,  but  that  was  impossible, 
as  the  Reverend  and  Honourable  Smallwood  Staf- 
ford, Lord  Beamys's  son,  who  had  a  cure  of  souls 
in  the  cathedral  city,  was  well  known  to  burn  no 
end  of  candles,  and  with  him  the  bishop  was  on  the 
best  of  terms.  Indeed  the  bishop  often  stayed 
at  Coplesey  (pronounced  'Copsey')  Hall,  Lord 
Beamys's  place  in  the  west. 

Lucian  had  mentioned  the  name  of  De  Carti  with 
intention,  and  had  perhaps  exaggerated  a  little  Mrs. 
Dixon's  respectful  manner.  He  knew  such  inci- 
,dents  cheered  his  father,  who  could  never  look  at 
these  subjects  from  a  proper  point  of  view,  and,  as 
people  said,  sometimes  made  the  strangest  remarks 
for  a  clergyman.  This  irreverent  way  of  treating 

28 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

serious  things  was  one  of  the  great  bonds  between 
father  and  son,  but  it  tended  to  increase  their  isola- 
tion. People  said  they  would  often  have  liked  to 
ask  Mr.  Taylor  to  garden-parties,  and  tea-parties, 
and  other  cheap  entertainments,  if  only  he  had  not 
been  such  an  extreme  man  and  so  queer.  Indeed, 
a  year  before,  Mr.  Taylor  had  gone  to  a  garden- 
party  at  the  Castle,  Caermaen,  and  had  made  such 
fun  of  the  bishop's  recent  address  on  missions  to 
the  Portuguese,  that  the  Gervases  and  Dixons  and 
all  who  heard  him  were  quite  shocked  and  annoyed. 
And,  as  Mrs.  Meyrick  of  Lanyravon  observed,  his 
black  coat  was  perfectly  green  with  age;  so  on  the 
whole  the  Gervases  did  not  like  to  invite  Mr.  Tay- 
lor again.  As  for  the  son,  nobody  cared  to  have 
him;  Mrs.  Dixon,  as  she  said  to  her  husband,  really 
asked  him  out  of  charity. 

'I  am  afraid  he  seldom  gets  a  real  meal  at  home,' 
she  remarked,  'so  I  thought  he  would  enjoy  a  good 
wholesome  tea  for  once  in  a  way.  But  he  is  such  an 
unsatisfactory  boy,  he  would  only  have  one  slice 
of  that  nice  plain  cake,  and  I  couldn't  get  him  to  take 
more  than  two  plums.  They  were  really  quite  ripe 
too,  and  boys  are  usually  so  fond  of  fruit.' 

Thus  Lucian  was  forced  to  spend  his  holidays 
chiefly  in  his  own  company,  and  make  the  best 
he  could  of  the  ripe  peaches  on  the  south  wall  of 
the  rectory  garden.  There  was  a  certain  corner 
where  the  heat  of  that  August  seemed  concen- 

29 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

trated,  reverberated  from  one  wall  to  the  other, 
and  here  he  liked  to  linger  of  mornings,  when  the 
mists  were  still  thick  in  the  valleys,  'mooning,' 
meditating,  extending  his  walk  from  the  quince  to 
the  medlar  and  back  again,  beside  the  moulder- 
ing walls  of  mellowed  brick.  He  was  full  of  a 
certain  wonder  and  awe,  not  unmixed  with  a  swell 
of  strange  exultation,  and  wished  more  and  more 
to  be  alone,  to  think  over  that  wonderful  after- 
noon within  the  fort.  In  spite  of  himself  the  im- 
pression was  fading;  he  could  not  understand  that 
feeling  of  mad  panic  terror  that  drove  him  through 
the  thicket  and  down  the  steep  hillside;  yet,  he  had 
experienced  so  clearly  the  physical  shame  and  reluc- 
tance of  the  flesh;  he  recollected  that  for  a  few 
seconds  after  his  awakening  the  sight  of  his  own 
body  had  made  him  shudder  and  writhe  as  if  it  had 
suffered  some  profoundest  degradation.  He  saw 
before  him  a  vision  of  two  forms;  a  faun  with  tin- 
gling and  pricking  flesh  lay  expectant  in  the  sun- 
light, and  there  was  also  the  likeness  of  a  miserable 
shamed  boy,  standing  with  trembling  body  and  shak- 
ing, unsteady  hands.  It  was  all  confused,  a  pro- 
cession of  blurred  images,  now  of  rapture  and  ec- 
stasy, and  now  of  terror  and  shame,  floating  in  a 
light  that  was  altogether  phantasmal  and  unreal. 
He  dared  not  approach  the  fort  again;  he  lingered 
in  the  road  to  Caermaen  that  passed  behind  it,  but 
a  mile  away,  and  separated  by  the  wild  land  and 

30 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

a  strip  of  wood  from  the  towering  battlements. 
Here  he  was  looking  over  a  gate  one  day,  doubtful 
and  wondering,  when  he  heard  a  heavy  step  behind 
him,  and  glancing  round  quickly  saw  it  was  old 
Morgan  of  the  White  House. 

'Good  afternoon,  Master  Lucian,'  he  began. 
'Mr.  Taylor  pretty  well,  I  suppose?  I  be  goin' 
to  the  house  a  minute;  the  men  in  the  fields  are 
wantin'  some  more  cider.  Would  you  come  and 
taste  a  drop  of  cider,  Master  Lucian?  It's  very 
good,  sir,  indeed.' 

Lucian  did  not  want  any  cider,  but  he  thought 
it  would  please  old  Morgan  if  he  took  some,  so  he 
said  he  should  like  to  taste  the  cider  very  much 
indeed.  Morgan  was  a  sturdy,  thick-set  old  man 
of  the  ancient  stock;  a  stiff  churchman,  who  break- 
fasted regularly  on  fat  broth  and  Caerphilly  cheese 
in  the  fashion  of  his  ancestors;  hot,  spiced  elder 
wine  was  for  winter  nights,  and  gin  for  festal 
seasons.  The  farm  had  always  been  the  freehold 
of  the  family,  and  when  Lucian,  in  the  wake  of  the 
yeoman,  passed  through  the  deep  porch  by  the 
oaken  door,  down  into  the  long  dark  kitchen,  he  felt 
as  though  the  seventeenth  century  still  lingered  on. 
One  mullioned  window,  set  deep  in  the  sloping  wall, 
gave  all  the  light  there  was  through  quarries  of 
thick  glass  in  which  there  were  whorls  and  circles,  so 
that  the  lapping  rose-branch  and  the  garden  and 
the  fields  beyond  were  distorted  to  the  sight.  Two 

31 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

heavy  beams,  oaken  but  whitewashed,  ran  across  the 
ceiling;  a  little  glow  of  fire  sparkled  in  the  great  fire- 
place, and  a  curl  of  blue  smoke  fled  up  the  cavern 
of  the  chimney.  Here  was  the  genuine  chimney- 
corner  of  our  fathers;  there  were  seats  on  each  side 
of  the  fireplace  where  one  could  sit  snug  and  shel- 
tered on  December  nights,  warm  and  merry  in  the 
blazing  light,  and  listen  to  the  battle  of  the  storm, 
and  hear  the  flame  spit  and  hiss  at  the  falling  snow- 
flakes.  At  the  back  of  the  fire  were  great  black- 
ened tiles  with  raised  initials  and  a  date — I.  M., 
1684. 

'Sit  down,  Master  Lucian,  sit  down,  sir,'  said 
Morgan. 

'Annie,'  he  called  through  one  of  the  numerous 
doors,  'here's  Master  Lucian,  the  parson,  would 
like  a  drop  of  cider.  Fetch  a  jug,  will  you,  di- 
rectly?' 

'Very  well,  father,'  came  the  voice  from  the  dairy, 
and  presently  the  girl  entered,  wiping  the  jug  she 
held.  In  his  boyish  way  Lucian  had  been  a  good 
deal  disturbed  by  Annie  Morgan ;  he  could  see  her 
on  Sundays  from  his  seat  in  church,  and  her  skin, 
curiously  pale,  her  lips  that  seemed  as  though  they 
were  stained  with  some  brilliant  pigment,  her  black 
hair,  and  the  quivering  black  eyes,  gave  him  odd 
fancies  which  he  had  hardly  shaped  to  himself. 
Annie  had  grown  into  a  woman  in  three  years,  and 

32 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  was  still  a  boy.  She  came  into  the  kitchen,  curt- 
sying and  smiling. 

'Good-day,  Master  Lucian,  and  how  is  Mr.  Tay- 
lor, sir?  * 

'Pretty  well,  thank  you.     I  hope  you  are  well/ 

'Nicely,  sir,  thank  you.  How  nice  your  voice 
do  sound  in  church,  Master  Lucian,  to  be  sure.  I 
was  telling  father  about  it  last  Sunday.' 

Lucian  grinned  and  felt  uncomfortable,  and  the 
girl  set  down  the  jug  on  the  round  table  and  brought 
a  glass  from  the  dresser.  She  bent  close  over  him 
as  she  poured  out  the  green  oily  cider,  fragrant  of 
the  orchard;  her  hand  touched  his  shoulder  for  a 
moment,  and  she  said,  'I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,'  very 
prettily.  He  looked  up  eagerly  at  her  face;  the 
black  eyes,  a  little  oval  in  shape,  were  shining,  and 
the  lips  smiled.  Annie  wore  a  plain  dress  of  some 
black  stuff,  open  at  the  throat;  her  skin  was  beauti- 
ful. For  a  moment  the  ghost  of  a  fancy  hovered 
unsubstantial  in  his  mind;  and  then  Annie  curtsied  as 
she  handed  him  the  cider,  and  replied  to  his  thanks 
with,  'And  welcome  kindly,  sir.' 

The  drink  was  really  good;  not  thin,  nor  sweet, 
but  round  and  full  and  generous,  with  a  fine  yellow 
flame  twinkling  through  the  green  when  one  held  it 
up  to  the  light.  It  was  like  a  stray  sunbeam  hover- 
ing on  the  grass  in  a  deep  orchard,  and  he  swal- 
lowed the  glassful  with  relish,  and  had  some  more, 

33 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

warmly  commending  it.     Mr.  Morgan  was  touched. 

'I  see  you  do  know  a  good  thing,  sir,'  he  said. 
'Iss,  indeed,  now,  it's  good  stuff  though  it's  my  own 
makin'.  My  old  grandfather  he  planted  the  trees 
in  the  time  of  the  wars,  and  he  was  a  very  good 
judge  of  an  apple  in  his  day  and  generation.  And 
a  famous  grafter  he  was,  to  be  sure.  You  will  never 
see  no  swelling  in  the  trees  he  grafted  at  all  what- 
ever. Now  there's  James  Morris,  Penyrhaul,  he's 
a  famous  grafter,  too,  and  yet  them  Redstreaks  he 
grafted  for  me  five  year  ago,  they  be  all  swollen- 
like  below  the  graft  already.  Would  you  like  to 
taste  a  Blemmin  pippin,  now,  Master  Lucian?  there 
be  a  few  left  in  the  loft,  I  believe.' 

Lucian  said  he  should  like  an  apple  very  much  and 
the  farmer  went  out  by  another  door,  and  Annie 
stayed  in  the  kitchen  talking.  She  said  Mrs.  Tre- 
vor, her  married  sister,  was  coming  to  them  soon  to 
spend  a  few  days. 

'She's  got  such  a  beautiful  baby,'  said  Annie,  'and 
he's  quite  sensible-like  already,  though  he's  only 
nine  months  old.  Mary  would  like  to  see  you,  sir, 
if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  step  in;  that  is,  if  it's 
not  troubling  you  at  all,  Master  Lucian.  I  suppose 
you  must  be  getting  a  fine  scholar  now,  sir?' 

'I  am  doing  pretty  well,  thank  you,'  said  the  boy. 
'I  was  first  in  my  form  last  term.' 

'Fancy !  To  think  of  that !  D'you  hear,  father, 
what  a  scholar  Master  Lucian  be  getting?' 

34 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'He  be  a  rare  grammarian,  I'm  sure,'  said  the 
farmer.  'You  do  take  after  your  father,  sir;  I  al- 
ways do  say  that  nobody  have  got  such  a  good 
deliverance  in  the  pulpit.' 

Lucian  did  not  find  the  Blenheim  Orange  as  good 
as  the  cider  but  he  ate  it  with  all  the  appearance 
of  relish,  and  put  another,  with  thanks,  into  his 
pocket.  He  thanked  the  farmer  again  when  he 
got  up  to  go;  and  Annie  curtsied  and  smiled,  and 
wished  him  good-day,  and  welcome,  kindly. 

Lucian  heard  her  saying  to  her  father  as  he  went 
out  what  a  nice-mannered  young  gentleman  he  was 
getting,  to  be  sure;  and  he  went  on  his  way,  think- 
ing that  Annie  was  really  very  pretty,  and  speculat- 
ing as  to  whether  he  would  have  the  courage  to  kiss 
her,  if  they  met  in  a  dark  lane.  He  was  quite  sure 
she  would  only  laugh,  and  say,  'Oh,  Master  Lucian !' 

For  many  months  he  had  occasional  fits  of  recol- 
lection, both  cold  and  hot;  but  the  bridge  of  time 
gradually  lengthening,  made  those  dreadful  and  de- 
licious images  grow  more  and  more  indistinct,  till 
at  last  they  all  passed  into  that  wonderland  which 
a  youth  looks  back  upon  in  amazement,  not  knowing 
why  this  used  to  be  a  symbol  of  terror  or  that  of 
joy.  At  the  end  of  each  term  he  would  come  home 
and  find  his  father  a  little  more  despondent,  and 
harder  to  cheer  even  for  a  moment;  and  the  wall 
paper  and  the  furniture  grew  more  and  more  dingy 
and  shabby.  The  two  cats,  loved  and  ancient 

35 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

beasts,  that  he  remembered  when  he  was  quite  a 
little  boy,  before  he  went  to  school,  died  miserably, 
one  after  the  other.  Old  Polly,  the  pony,  at  last 
fell  down  in  the  stable  from  the  weakness  of  old 
age,  and  had  to  be  killed  there;  the  battered  old 
trap  ran  no  longer  along  the  well  remembered  lanes. 
There  was  long  meadow  grass  on  the  lawn,  and  the 
trained  fruit  trees  on  the  wall  had  got  quite  out  of 
hand.  At  last,  when  Lucian  was  seventeen,  his 
father  was  obliged  to  take  him  from  school;  he 
could  no  longer  afford  the  fees.  This  was  the  sorry 
ending  of  many  hopes,  and  dreams  of  a  double- 
first,  a  fellowship,  distinction  and  glory  that  the  poor 
parson  had  long  entertained  for  his  son,  and  the 
two  moped  together,  in  the  shabby  room,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  sulky  fire,  thinking  of  dead  days 
and  finished  plans,  and  seeing  a  grey  future  in  the 
years  that  advanced  towards  them.  At  one  time 
there  seemed  some  chance  of  a  distant  relative  com- 
ing forward  to  Lucian's  assistance;  and  indeed  it 
was  quite  settled  that  he  should  go  up  to  London 
with  certain  definite  aims.  Mr.  Taylor  told  the 
good  news  to  his  acquaintances — his  coat  was  too 
green  now  for  any  pretence  of  friendship;  and  Lu- 
cian himself  spoke  of  his  plans  to  Burrows  the  doc- 
tor and  Mr.  Dixon,  and  one  or  two  others.  Then 
the  whole  scheme  fell  through,  and  the  parson  and 
his  son  suffered  much  sympathy.  People,  of  course, 
had  to  say  they  were  sorry,  but  in  reality  the  news 

36 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

was  received  with  high  spirits,  with  the  joy  with 
which  one  sees  a  stone,  as  it  rolls  down  a  steep  place, 
give  yet  another  bounding  leap  towards  the  pool 
beneath.  Mrs.  Dixon  heard  the  pleasant  tidings 
from  Mrs.  Colley,  who  came  in  to  talk  about  the 
Mothers'  Meeting  and  the  Band  of  Hope.  Mrs. 
Dixon  was  nursing  little  ^Ethelwig,  or  some  such 
name,  at  the  time,  and  made  many  affecting  ob- 
servations on  the  general  righteousness  with  which 
the  world  was  governed.  Indeed,  poor  Lucian's 
disappointment  seemed  distinctly  to  increase  her 
faith  in  the  Divine  Order,  as  if  it  had  been  some 
example  in  Butler's  Analogy. 

'Aren't  Mr.  Taylor's  views  very  extreme?'  she 
said  to  her  husband  the  same  evening. 

'I  am  afraid  they  are,'  he  replied.  'I  was  quite 
grieved  at  the  last  Diocesan  Conference  at  the 
way  in  which  he  spoke.  The  dear  old  bishop  had 
given  an  address  on  Auricular  Confession;  he  was 
forced  to  do  so,  you  know,  after  what  had  happened, 
and  I  must  say  that  I  never  felt  prouder  of  our  be- 
loved Church.' 

Mr.  Dixon  told  all  the  Homeric  story  of  the 
conference,  reciting  the  achievements  of  the  cham- 
pions, 'deploring'  this  and  applauding  that.  It 
seemed  that  Mr.  Taylor  had  had  the  audacity  to 
quote  authorities  which  the  bishop  could  not  very 
well  repudiate,  though  they  were  directly  opposed 
to  the  'safe'  episcopal  pronouncement. 

37 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Mrs.  Dixon  of  course  was  grieved;  it  was  'sad' 
to  think  of  a  clergyman  behaving  so  shamefully. 

'But  you  know,  dear,'  she  proceeded,  'I  have 
been  thinking  about  that  unfortunate  Taylor  boy 
and  his  disappointments,  and  after  what  you've 
just  told  me,  I  am  sure  it's  some  kind  of  judgment  on 
them  both.  Has  Mr.  Taylor  forgotten  the  vows 
he  took  at  his  ordination?  But  don't  you  think, 
dear,  I  am  right,  and  that  he  has  been  punished: 
"The  sins  of  the  fathers"?' 

Somehow  or  other  Lucian  divined  this  atmos- 
phere of  threatenings  and  judgments,  and  shrank 
more  and  more  from  the  small  society  of  the  coun- 
tryside. For  his  part,  when  he  was  not  'mooning' 
in  the  beloved  fields  and  woods  of  happy  memory, 
he  shut  himself  up  with  books,  reading  whatever 
could  be  found  on  the  shelves,  and  amassing  a  store 
of  incongruous  and  obsolete  knowledge.  Long  did 
he  linger  with  the  men  of  the  seventeenth  century; 
delaying  in  the  gay  sunlit  streets  with  Pepys,  and 
listening  to  the  charmed  sound  of  the  Restoration 
Revel;  roaming  by  peaceful  streams  with  Izaak 
Walton,  and  the  great  Catholic  divines;  enchanted 
with  the  portrait  of  Herbert  the  loving  ascetic;  awed 
by  the  mystic  breath  of  Crashaw.  Then  the  cava- 
lier poets  sang  their  gallant  songs;  and  Herrick 
made  Dean  Prior  magic  ground  by  the  holy  incanta- 
tion of  a  verse.  And  in  the  old  proverbs  and 
homely  sayings  of  the  time  he  found  the  good  and 

38 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

beautiful  English  life,  a  time  full  of  grace  and  dig- 
nity and  rich  merriment.  He  dived  deeper  and 
deeper  into  his  books;  he  had  taken  all  obsolescence 
to  be  his  province;  in  his  disgust  at  the  stupid  usual 
questions,  'Will  it  pay?'  'What  good  is  it?'  and  so 
forth,  he  would  only  read  what  was  uncouth  and 
useless.  The  strange  pomp  and  symbolism  of  the 
Cabala,  with  its  hint  of  more  terrible  things;  the 
Rosicrucian  mysteries  of  Fludd,  the  enigmas  of 
Yaughan,  dreams  of  alchemists — all  these  were  his 
delight.  Such  were  his  companions,  with  the  hills 
and  hanging  woods,  the  brooks  and  lonely  water- 
pools;  books,  the  thoughts  of  books,  the  stirrings 
of  imagination,  all  fused  into  one  phantasy  by  the 
magic  of  the  outland  country.  He  held  himself 
aloof  from  the  walls  of  the  fort;  he  was  content  to 
see  the  heaped  mounds,  the  violent  height  with  faery 
bulwarks,  from  the  gate  in  the  lane,  and  to  leave  all 
within  the  ring  of  oaks  in  the  mystery  of  his  boy- 
hood's vision.  He  professed  to  laugh  at  himself 
and  at  his  fancies  of  that  hot  August  afternoon, 
when  sleep  came  to  him  within  the  thicket,  but  in  his 
heart  of  hearts  there  was  something  that  never 
faded — something  that  glowed  like  the  red  glint  of 
a  gypsy's  fire  seen  from  afar  across  the  hills  and 
mists  of  the  night,  and  known  to  be  burning  in  a 
wild  land.  Sometimes,  when  he  was  sunken  in  his 
books,  the  flame  of  delight  shot  up,  and  showed  him 
a  whole  province  and  continent  of  his  nature,  all 

39 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

shining  and  aglow;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  exulta- 
tion and  triumph  he  would  draw  back  a  little  afraid. 
He  had  become  ascetic  in  his  studious  and  melan- 
choly isolation,  and  the  vision  of  such  ecstacies 
frightened  him.  He  began  to  write  a  little;  at  first 
very  tentatively  and  feebly,  and  then  with  more  con- 
fidence. He  showed  some  of  his  verses  to  his 
father,  who  told  him  with  a  sigh  that  he  had  once 
hoped  to  write — in  the  old  days  at  Oxford,  he 
added. 

'They  are  very  nicely  done,'  said  the  parson; 
'but  I'm  afraid  you  won't  find  anybody  to  print 
them,  my  boy.' 

So  he  pottered  on;  reading  everything,  imitating 
what  struck  his  fancy,  attempting  the  effect  of  the 
classic  metres  in  English  verse,  trying  his  hand  at 
a  masque,  a  Restoration  comedy,  forming  impossible 
plans  for  books  which  rarely  got  beyond  half  a 
dozen  lines  on  a  sheet  of  paper;  beset  with  splendid 
fancies  which  refused  to  abide  before  the  pen.  But 
the  vain  joy  of  conception  was  not  altogether  vain, 
for  it  gave  him  some  armour  about  his  heart. 

The  months  went  by,  monotonous,  and  sometimes 
blotted  with  despair.  He  wrote  and  planned  and 
filled  the  waste-paper  basket  with  hopeless  efforts. 
Now  and  then  he  sent  verses  or  prose  articles  to 
magazines,  in  pathetic  ignorance  of  the  trade.  He 
felt  the  immense  difficulty  of  the  career  of  literature 
without  clearly  understanding  it;  the  battle  was 

40 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

happily  in  a  mist,  so  that  the  host  of  the  enemy, 
terribly  arrayed,  was  to  some  extent  hidden.  Yet 
there  was  enough  of  difficulty  to  appal;  from  fol- 
lowing the  intricate  course  of  little  nameless  books, 
from  hushed  twilight  woods,  from  the  vision  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  breath  of  the  great  wind,  pass- 
ing from  deep  to  deep,  he  would  come  home  filled 
with  thoughts  and  emotions,  mystic  fancies  which 
he  yearned  to  translate  into  the  written  word.  And 
the  result  of  the  effort  seemed  always  to  be  bathos ! 
Wooden  sentences,  a  portentous  stilted  style,  ob- 
scurity, and  awkwardness  clogged  the  pen ;  it  seemed 
impossible  to  win  the  great  secret  of  language;  the 
stars  glittered  only  in  the  darkness,  and  vanished 
away  in  clearer  light.  The  periods  of  despair  were 
often  long  and  heavy,  the  victories  very  few  and 
trifling;  night  after  night  he  sat  writing  after  his 
father  had  knocked  out  his  last  pipe,  filling  a  page 
with  difficulty  in  an  hour,  and  usually  forced  to 
thrust  the  stuff  away  in  despair,  and  go  unhappily  to 
bed,  conscious  that  after  all  his  labour  he  had  done 
nothing.  And  these  were  moments  when  the  ac- 
customed vision  of  the  land  alarmed  him,  and  the 
wild  domed  hills  and  darkling  woods  seemed  symbols 
of  some  terrible  secret  in  the  inner  life  of  that 
stranger — himself.  Sometimes  when  he  was  deep 
in  his  books  and  papers,  sometimes  on  a  lonely  walk, 
sometimes  amidst  the  tiresome  chatter  of  Caermaen 
'society,'  he  would  thrill  with  a  sudden  sense  of 

41 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

awful  hidden  things,  and  there  ran  that  quivering 
flame  through  his  nerves  that  brought  back  the  rec- 
ollection of  the  matted  thicket,  and  that  earlier 
appearance  of  the  bare  black  boughs  enwrapped  with 
flames.  Indeed,  though  he  avoided  the  solitary 
lane,  and  the  sight  of  the  sheer  height,  with  its 
ring  of  oaks  and  moulded  mounds,  the  image  of  it 
grew  more  intense  as  the  symbol  of  certain  hints 
and  suggestions.  The  exultant  and  insurgent  flesh 
seemed  to  have  its  temple  and  castle  within  those 
olden  walls,  and  he  longed  with  all  his  heart  to 
escape,  to  set  himself  free  in  the  wilderness  of  Lon- 
don, and  to  be  secure  amidst  the  murmur  of  modern 
streets. 


II 

LUCIAN  was  growing  really  anxious  about 
his  manuscript.  He  had  gained  enough  ex- 
perience at  twenty-three  to  know  that  edi- 
tors and  publishers  must  not  be  hurried;  but  his 
book  had  been  lying  at  Messrs.  Beit's  office  for 
more  than  three  months.  For  six  weeks  he  had  not 
dared  to  expect  an  answer,  but  afterwards  life  had 
become  agonising.  Every  morning,  at  post-time, 
the  poor  wretch  nearly  choked  with  anxiety  to  know 
whether  his  sentence  had  arrived,  and  the  rest  of 
the  day  was  racked  with  alternate  pangs  of  hope  and 
despair.  Now  and  then  he  was  almost  assured  of 
success;  coming  over  these  painful  and  eager  pages 
in  memory,  he  found  parts  that  were  admirable, 
while  again,  his  inexperience  reproached  him,  and 
he  feared  he  had  written  a  raw  and  awkward  book, 
wholly  unfit  for  print.  Then  he  would  compare 
what  he  remembered  of  it  with  notable  magazine 
articles  and!  books  praised  by  reviewers,  and  fancy 
that  after  all  there  might  be  good  points  in  the 
thing;  he  could  not  help  liking  the  first  chapter  for 
instance.  Perhaps  the  letter  might  come  to-morrow. 
So  it  went  on;  week  after  week  of  sick  torture  made 
more  exquisite  by  such  gleams  of  hope;  it  was  as  if 

43 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  were  stretched  in  anguish  on  the  rack,  and  the 
pain  relaxed  and  kind  words  spoken  now  and  again 
by  the  tormentors,  and  then  once  more  the  grind- 
ing pang  and  burning  agony.  At  last  he  could  bear 
suspense  no  longer,  and  he  wrote  to  Messrs.  Beit, 
inquiring  in  a  humble  manner  whether  the  manu- 
script had  arrived  in  safety.  The  firm  replied  in  a 
very  polite  letter,  expressing  their  regret  that  their 
reader  had  been  suffering  from  a  cold  in  the  head, 
and  had  therefore  been  unable  to  send  in  his  report. 
A  final  decision  was  promised  in  a  week's  time,  and 
the  letter  ended  with  apologies 'for  the  delay  and  a 
hope  that  he  had  suffered  no  inconvenience.  Of 
course  the  'final  decision'  did  not  come  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  but  the  book  was  returned  at  the  end 
of  three  weeks,  with  a  circular  thanking  the  author 
for  his  kindness  in  submitting  the  manuscript,  and 
regretting  that  the  firm  did  not  see  their  way  to 
producing  it.  He  felt  relieved;  the  operation  that 
he  had  dreaded  and  deprecated  for  so  long  was  at 
last  over,  and  he  would  no  longer  grow  sick  of 
mornings  when  the  letters  were  brought  in.  He 
took  his  parcel  to  the  sunny  corner  of  the  garden, 
where  the  old  wooden  seat  stood  sheltered  from  the 
biting  March  winds.  Messrs.  Beit  had  put  in  with 
the  circular  one  of  their  short  lists,  a  neat  booklet, 
headed:  Messrs.  Beit  &  Co.'s  Recent  Publications. 
He  settled  himself  comfortably  on  the  seat,  lit 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  read:  'A  Bad  Un  to  Beat: 

44 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

a  Novel  of  Sporting  Life,  by  the  honourable  Mrs. 
Scudamore  Runnymede,  author  of  Yoicks,  With  the 
Mudshire  Pack,  The  Sportleigh  Stables,  etc.,  etc.,  3 
vols.  At  all  Libraries.'  The  Press,  it  seemed, 
pronounced  this  to  be  'a  charming  book.  Mrs. 
Runnymede  has  wit  and  humour  enough  to  furnish 
forth  half-a-dozen  ordinary  sporting  novels.' 
'Told  with  the  sparkle  and  vivacity  of  a  past-mis- 
tress in  the  art  of  novel  writing,'  said  the  Review; 
while  Miranda,  of  Smart  Society,  positively  bubbled 
with  enthusiasm.  'You  must  forgive  me,  Aminta,' 
wrote  this  young  person,  'if  I  have  not  sent  the 
description  I  promised  of  Madame  Lulu's  new  crea- 
tions and  others  of  that  ilk.  I  must  a  tale  unfold; 
Tom  came  in  yesterday  and  began  to  rave  about  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Scudamore  Runnymede's  last 
novel,  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat.  He  says  all  the  Smart 
Set  are  talking  of  it,  and  it  seems  the  police  have 
to  regulate  the  crowd  at  Mudie's.  You  know  I 
read  everything  Mrs.  Runnymede  writes,  so  I  sent 
out  Miggs  directly  to  beg,  borrow  or  steal  a  copy, 
and  I  confess  I  burnt  the  midnight  oil  before  I  laid 
it  down.  Now,  mind,  you  get  it,  you  will  find  it 
so  awfully  chic.'  Nearly  all  the  novelists  on 
Messrs.  Beit's  list  were  ladies,  their  works  all  ran 
to  three  volumes,  and  all  of  them  pleased  the  Press, 
the  Review,  and  Miranda  of  Smart  Society.  One 
of  these  books,  Millicent's  Marriage,  by  Sarah  Pock- 
lington  Sanders,  was  pronounced  fit  to  lie  on  the 

45 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

schoolroom  table,  on  the  drawing-room  bookshelf, 
or  beneath  the  pillow  of  the  most  gently  nurtured 
of  our  daughters.  'This,'  the  reviewer  went  on, 
'is  high  praise,  especially  in  these  days  when  we  are 
deafened  by  the  loud-voiced  clamour  of  self-styled 
"artists."  We  would  warn  the  young  men  who 
prate  so  persistently  of  style  and  literature,  con- 
struction and  prose  harmonies,  that  we  believe  the 
English  reading  public  will  have  none  of  them. 
Harmless  amusement,  a  gentle  flow  of  domestic 
interest,  a  faithful  reproduction  of  the  open  and 
manly  life  of  the  hunting  field,  pictures  of  innocent 
and  healthy  English  girlhood  such  as  Miss  Sanders 
here  affords  us ;  these  are  the  topics  that  will  always 
find  a  welcome  in  our  homes,  which  remain  bolted 
and  barred  against  the  abandoned  artist  and  the 
scrofulous  stylist.' 

He  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  little  book 
and  chuckled  in  high  relish ;  he  discovered  an  honest 
enthusiasm,  a  determination  to  strike  a  blow  for 
the  good  and  true  that  refreshed  and  exhilarated. 
A  beaming  face,  spectacled  and  whiskered  probably, 
an  expansive  waistcoat,  and  a  tender  heart,  seemed 
to  shine  through  the  words  which  Messrs.  Beit  had 
quoted;  and  the  alliteration  of  the  final  sentence; 
that  was  good  too;  there  was  style  for  you  if  you 
wanted  it.  The  champion  of  the  blushing  cheek 
and  the  gushing  eye  showed  that  he  too  could  handle 
the  weapons  of  the  enemy  if  he  cared  to  trouble 

46 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

himself  with  such  things.  Lucian  leant  back  and 
roared  with  indecent  laughter  till  the  tabby  torn' 
cat  who  had  succeeded  to  the  poor  dead  beasts 
looked  up  reproachfully  from  his  sunny  corner, 
with  a  face  like  the  reviewer's,  innocent  and  round 
and  whiskered.  At  last  he  turned  to  his  parcel  and 
drew  out  some  half-dozen  sheets  of  manuscript, 
and  began  to  read  in  a  rather  desponding  spirit; 
it  was  pretty  obvious,  he  thought,  that  the  stuff 
was  poor  and  beneath  the  standard  of  publication. 
The  book  had  taken  a  year  and  a  half  in  the  mak- 
ing; it  was  a  pious  attempt  to  translate  into  English 
prose  the  form  and  mystery  of  the  domed  hills,  the 
magic  of  occult  valleys,  the  sound  of  the  red  swollen 
brook  swirling  through  leafless  woods.  Day-dreams 
and  toil  at  nights  had  gone  into  the  eager  pages, 
he  had  laboured  hard  to  do  his  very  best,  writing 
and  rewriting,  weighing  his  cadences,  beginning  over 
and  over  again,  grudging  no  patience,  no  trouble 
if  only  it  might  be  pretty  good;  good  enough  to  print 
and  sell  to  a  reading  public  which  had  become 
critical.  He  glanced  through  the  manuscript  in 
his  hand,  and  to  his  astonishment,  he  could  not 
help  thinking  that  in  its  measure  it  was  decent  work. 
After  three  months  his  prose  seemed  fresh  and 
strange  as  if  it  had  been  wrought  by  another  man, 
and  in  spite  of  himself  he  found  charming  things, 
and  impressions  that  were  not  commonplace.  He 
knew  how  weak  it  all  was  compared  with  his  own 

47 


'  The  Hill  of  Dreams 

conceptions;  he  had  seen  an  enchanted  city,  awful, 
glorious,  with  flame  smitten  about  its  battlements, 
like  the  cities  of  the  Sangraal,  and  he  had  moulded 
his  copy  in  such  poor  clay  as  came  to  his  hand; 
yet,  in  spite  of  the  gulf  that  yawned  between  the 
idea  and  the  work,  he  knew  as  he  read  that  the 
thing  accomplished  was  very  far  from  failure.  He 
put  back  the  leaves  carefully,  and  glanced  again 
at  Messrs.  Beit's  list.  It  had  escaped  his  notice 
that  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat  was  in  its  third  three- 
volume  edition.  It  was  a  great  thing,  at  all  events, 
to  know  in  what  direction  to  aim,  if  he  wished 
to  succeed.  If  he  worked  hard,  he  thought,  he 
might  some  day  win  the  approval  of  the  coy  and 
retiring  Miranda  of  Smart  Society;  that  modest 
maiden  might  in  his  praise  interrupt  her  task  of 
disinterested  advertisement,  her  philanthropic  coun- 
sels to  'go  to  Jumper's,  and  mind  you  ask  for  Mr. 
C.  Jumper,  who  will  show  you  the  lovely  blue  pa- 
per with  the  yellow  spots  at  ten  shillings  the  piece.' 
He  put  down  the  pamphlet,  and  laughed  again  at 
the  books  and  the  reviewers:  so  that  he  might  not 
weep.  This  then  was  English  fiction,  this  was 
English  criticism,  and  farce,  after  all,  was  but  an 
ill-played  tragedy. 

The  rejected  manuscript  was  hidden  away,  and 
his  father  quoted  Horace's  maxim  as  to  the  benefit 
of  keeping  literary  works  some  time  'in  the  wood.' 
There  was  nothing  to  grumble  at,  though  Lucian 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

was  inclined  to  think  the  duration  of  the  reader's 
catarrh  a  little  exaggerated.  But  this  was  a  trifle; 
he  did  not  arrogate  to  himself  the  position  of  a 
small  commercial  traveller,  who  expects  prompt 
civility  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  not  at  all  as  a 
favour.  He  simply  forgot  his  old  book,  and  re- 
solved that  he  would  make  a  better  one  if  he  could. 
With  the  hot  fit  of  resolution,  the  determination 
not  to  be  snuffed  out  by  one  refusal  upon  him,  he 
began  to  beat  about  in  his  mind  for  some  new 
scheme.  At  first  it  seemed  that  he  had  hit  upon 
a  promising  subject;  he  began  to  plot  out  chapters 
and  scribble  hints  for  the  curious  story  that  had 
entered  his  mind,  arranging  his  circumstances  and 
noting  the  effects  to  be  produced  with  all  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  artist.  But  after  the  first  breath  the' 
aspect  of  the  work  changed;  page  after  page  was 
tossed  aside  as  hopeless,  the  beautiful  sentences  he 
had  dreamed  of  refused  to  be  written,  and  his 
puppets  remained  stiff  and  wooden,  devoid  of  life 
or  motion.  Then  all  the  old  despair  came  back, 
the  agonies  of  the  artificer  who  strives  and  per- 
severes in  vain;  the  scheme  that  seemed  of  amorous 
fire  turned  to  cold  hard  ice  in  his  hands.  He  let  the 
pen  drop  from  his  fingers,  and  wondered  how  he 
could  have  ever  dreamed  of  writing  books.  Again, 
the  thought  occurred  that  he  might  do  something 
if  he  could  only  get  away,  and  join  the  sad  pro- 
cession in  the  murmuring  London  streets,  far  from 

49 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  shadow  of  those  awful  hills.  But  it  was 
quite  impossible ;  the  relative  who  had  once  promised 
assistance  was  appealed  to,  and  wrote  expressing 
his  regret  that  Lucian  had  turned  out  a  'loafer,' 
wasting  his  time  in  scribbling,  instead  of  trying  to 
earn  his  living.  Lucian  felt  rather  hurt  at  this 
letter,  but  the  parson  only  grinned  grimly  as  usual. 
He  was  thinking  of  how  he  signed  a  cheque  many 
years  before,  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  and 
the  cheque  was  payable  to  the  didactic  relative, 
then  in  but  a  poor  way,  and  of  a  thankful  turn  of 
mind. 

The  old  rejected  manuscript  had  almost  passed 
out  of  his  recollection.  It  was  recalled  oddly 
enough.  He  was  looking  over  the  Reader,  and 
enjoying  the  admirable  literary  criticisms,  some 
three  months  after  the  return  of  his  book,  when 
his  eye  was  attracted  by  a  quoted  passage  in  one 
of  the  notices.  The  thought  and  style  both 
wakened  memory,  the  cadences  were  familiar  and 
beloved.  He  read  through  the  review  from  the 
beginning;  it  was  a  very  favourable  one,  and  pro- 
nounced the  volume  an  immense  advance  on  Mr. 
Ritson's  previous  work.  'Here,  undoubtedly,  the 
author  has  discovered  a  vein  of  pure  metal,'  the 
reviewer  added,  'and  we  predict  that  he  will  go 
far.'  Lucian  had  not  yet  reached  his  father's 
stage,  he  was  unable  to  grin  in  the  manner  of  that 
irreverent  parson.  The  passage  selected  for  high 

50 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

praise  was  taken  almost  word  for  word  from  the 
manuscript  now  resting  in  his  room,  the  work  that 
had  not  reached  the  high  standard  of  Messrs. 
Beit  &  Co.,  who,  curiously  enough,  were  the  pub- 
lishers of  the  book  reviewed  in  the  Reader.  He 
had  a  few  shillings  in  his  possession,  and  wrote  at 
once  to  a  bookseller  in  London  for  a  copy  of  The 
Chorus  in  Green,  as  the  author  had  oddly  named 
the  book.  He  wrote  on  June  2ist,  and  thought 
he  might  fairly  expect  to  receive  the  interesting 
volume  by  the  24th;  but  the  postman,  true  to  his 
traditions,  brought  nothing  for  him,  and  in  the 
afternoon  he  resolved  to  walk  down  to  Caermaen, 
in  case  it  might  have  come  by  a  second  post;  or 
it  might  have  been  mislaid  at  the  office;  they  for- 
got parcels  sometimes,  especially  when  the  bag  was 
heavy  and  the  weather  hot. 

This  24th  was  a  sultry  and  oppressive  day;  a  grey 
veil  of  cloud  obscured  the  sky,  and  a  vaporous  mist 
hung  heavily  over  the  land,  and  fumed  up  from  the 
valleys.  But  at  five  o'clock,  when  he  started,  the 
clouds  began  to  break,  and  the  sunlight  suddenly 
streamed  down  through  the  misty  air,  making  ways 
and  channels  of  rich  glory,  and  bright  islands  in  the 
gloom.  It  was  a  pleasant  and  shining  evening 
when,  passing  by  devious  back  streets  to  avoid  the 
barbarians  (as  he  very  rudely  called  the  respectable 
inhabitants  of  the  town),  he  reached  the  post-office; 
which  was  also  the  general  shop. 

51 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'Yes,  Mr.  Taylor,  there  is  something  for  you, 
sir,'  said  the  man.  'William  the  postman  forgot 
to  take  it  up  this  morning,'  and  he  handed  over 
the  packet.  Lucian  took  it  under  his  arm  and 
went  slowly  through  the  ragged  winding  lanes 
till  he  came  into  the  country.  He  got  over  the 
first  stile  on  the  road,  and  sitting  down  in  the 
shelter  of  a  hedge,  cut  the  strings  and  opened  the 
parcel.  The  Chorus  in  Green  was  got  up  in  what 
reviewers  call  a  dainty  manner:  a  bronze-green 
cloth,  well-cut  gold  lettering,  wide  margins  and 
black  'old-face'  type,  all  witnessed  to  the  good 
taste  of  Messrs.  Beit  &  Co.  He  cut  the  pages 
hastily  and  began  to  read.  He  soon  found  that 
he  had  wronged  Mr.  Ritson — that  old  literary  hand 
had  by  no  means  stolen  his  book  wholesale,  as 
he  had  expected.  There  were  about  two  hundred 
pages  in  the  pretty  little  volume,  and  of  these  about 
ninety  were  Lucian's,  dovetailed  into  a  rather  dif- 
ferent scheme  with  skill  that  was  nothing  short  of 
exquisite.  And  Mr.  Ritson's  own  work  was  often 
very  good;  spoilt  here  and  there  for  some  tastes 
by  the  'cataloguing'  method,  a  somewhat  material- 
istic way  of  taking  an  inventory  of  the  holy  country 
things;  but,  for  that  very  reason,  contrasting  to 
great  advantage  with  Lucian's  hints  and  dreams  and 
note  of  haunting.  And  here  and  there  Mr.  Ritson 
had  made  little  alterations  in  the  style  of  the  pass- 
ages he  had  conveyed,  and  most  of  these  alterations 

52 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

were  amendments,  as  Lucian  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess, though  he  would  have  liked  to  argue  one  or 
two  points  with  his  collaborator  and  corrector.  He 
lit  his  pipe  and  leant  back  comfortably  in  the  hedge, 
thinking  things  over,  weighing  very  coolly  his  expe- 
rience of  humanity,  his  contract  with  the  'society' 
of  the  countryside,  the  affair  of  The  Chorus  in 
Green,  and  even  some  little  incidents  that  had  struck 
him  as  he  was  walking  through  the  streets  of  Caer- 
maen  that  evening.  At  the  post-office,  when  he  was 
inquiring  for  his  parcel,  he  had  heard  two  old  women 
grumbling  in  the  street;  it  seemed,  so  far  as  he 
could  make  out,  that  both  had  been  disappointed 
in  much  the  same  way.  Each  had  applied  for  an 
alms  at  the  vicarage;  they  were  probably  shiftless 
old  wretches  who  had  liked  beer  for  supper  all 
their  lives,  and  had  forgotten  the  duties  of  econ- 
omy and  'laying  up  treasure  upon  earth.'  One 
was  a  Roman  Catholic,  hardened,  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  conversion;  she  had  been  advised  to  ask 
alms  of  the  priests,  'who  are  always  creeping  and 
crawling  about.'  The  other  old  sinner  was  a  dis- 
senter, and,  'Mr.  Dixon  has  quite  enough  to  do 
to  relieve  good  Church  people.'  Mrs.  Dixon,  as- 
sisted by  Henrietta,  was,  it  seemed,  the  lady  high 
almoner,  who  dispensed  these  charities.  As  she 
said  to  Mrs.  Colley,  they  would  end  by  keeping 
all  the  beggars  in  the  county,  and  they  really 
couldn't  afford  it.  A  large  family  was  an  expensive 

53 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

thing,  and  the  girls  must  have  new  frocks.  'Mr. 
Dixon  is  always  telling  me  and  the  girls  that  we  must 
not  demoralise  the  people  by  indiscriminate  charity.' 
Lucian  had  heard  of  these  sage  counsels,  and 
thought  of  them  as  he  listened  to  the  bitter  com- 
plaints of  the  gaunt,  hungry  old  women.  In  the 
back  street  by  which  he  passed  out  of  the  town 
he  saw  a  large  'healthy'  boy  kicking  a  sick  cat; 
the  poor  creature  had  just  strength  enough  to  crawl 
under  an  outhouse  door;  probably  to  die  in  tor- 
ments. He  did  not  find  much  satisfaction  in  thrash- 
ing the  boy,  but  he  did  it  with  hearty  good  will. 
Further  on,  at  the  corner  where  the  turnpike  used 
to  be,  was  a  big  notice,  announcing  a  meeting  at 
the  schoolroom  in  aid  of  the  mission  to  the  Portu- 
guese. 'Under  the  patronage  of  the  Lord  Bishop 
of  the  Diocese,'  was  the  imposing  headline;  the 
Reverend  Merivale  Dixon,  vicar  of  Caermaen,  was 
to  be  in  the  chair,  supported  by  Stanley  Gervase, 
Esq.,  J.  P.,  and  by  many  of  the  clergy  and  gentry 
of  the  neighbourhood.  Senhor  Diabo,  'formerly 
a  Rormanist  priest,  now  an  evangelist  in  Lisbon,' 
would  address  the  meeting,  'Funds  are  urgently 
needed  to  carry  on  this  good  work,'  concluded  the 
notice.  So  he  lay  well  back  in  the  shade  of  the 
hedge,  and  thought  whether  some  sort  of  an  article 
could  not  be  made  by  vindicating  the  terrible 
Yahoos;  one  might  point  out  that  they  were  in 
many  respects  a  simple  and  unsophisticated  race, 

54 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

whose  faults  were  the  result  of  their  enslaved  posi- 
tion, while  such  virtues  as  they  had  were  all  their 
own.  They  might  be  compared,  he  thought,  much 
to  their  advantage,  with  more  complex  civilisations. 
There  was  no  hint  of  anything  like  the  Beit  system 
of  publishing  as  in  existence  amongst  them,  the 
great  Yahoo  nation  would  surely  never  feed  and 
encourage  a  scabby  Houyhnhnm,  expelled  for  his 
foulness  from  the  horse-community,  and  the  witty 
dean,  in  all  his  minuteness,  had  said  nothing  of 
'safe'  Yahoos.  On  reflection,  however,  he  did 
not  feel  quite  secure  of  this  part  of  his  defence; 
he  remembered  that  the  leading  brutes  had  favour- 
ites, who  were  employed  in  certain  simple  domestic 
offices  about  their  masters;  and  it  seemed  doubtful 
whether  the  contemplated  vindication  would  not 
break  down  on  this  point.  He  smiled  queerly  to 
himself  as  he  thought  of  these  comparisons,  but  his 
heart  burnt  with  a  dull  fury.  Throwing  back  his 
unhappy  memory,  he  recalled  all  the  contempt  and 
scorn  he  had  suffered;  as  a  boy  he  had  heard  the 
masters  murmuring  their  disdain  of  him  and  of  his 
desire  to  learn  other  than  ordinary  school  work. 
As  a  young  man  he  had  suffered  the  insolence  of 
these  wretched  people  about  him;  their  cackling 
laughter  at  his  poverty  jarred  and  grated  in  his 
ears,  he  saw  the  acrid  grin  of  some  miserable  idiot 
woman,  some  creature  beneath  the  swine  in  intelli- 
gence and  manners,  merciless,  as  he  went  by  with  his 

55 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

eyes  on  the  dust,  in  his  ragged  clothes.  He  and 
his  father  seemed  to  pass  down  an  avenue  of  jeers 
and  contempt,  and  contempt  from  such  animals  as 
these!  This  putrid  filth,  moulded  into  human 
shape,  made  only  to  fawn  on  the  rich  and  beslaver 
them,  thinking  no  foulness  too  foul  if  it  were  done 
in  honour  of  those  in  power  and  authority;  and 
no  refined  cruelty  of  contempt  too  cruel  if  it  were 
contempt  of  the  poor  and  humble  and  oppressed; 
it  was  to  this  obscene  and  ghastly  throng  that  he 
was  something  to  be  pointed  at.  And  these  men 
and  women  spoke  of  sacred  things,  and  knelt  before 
the  awful  altar  of  God,  before  the  altar  of 
tremendous  fire,  surrounded  as  they  professed  by 
Angels  and  Archangels  and  all  the  Company  of 
Heaven;  and  in  their  very  church  they  had  one 
aisle  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor.  And 
the  species  was  not  peculiar  to  Caermaen;  the  rich 
business  men  in  London  and  the  successful  brother 
author  were  probably  amusing  themselves  at  the 
expense  of  the  poor  struggling  creature  they  had 
injured  and  wounded;  just  as  the  'healthy'  boy 
had  burst  into  a  great  laugh  when  the  miserable 
sick  cat  cried  out  in  bitter  agony,  and  trailed  its 
limbs  slowly,  as  it  crept  away  to  die.  Lucian  looked 
into  his  own  life  and  his  own  will;  he  saw  that  in 
spite  of  his  follies,  and  his  want  of  success,  he 
had  not  been  consciously  malignant,  he  had  never 
deliberately  aided  in  oppression,  or  looked  on  it 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

with  enjoyment  and  approval,  and  he  felt  that  when 
he  lay  dead  beneath  the  earth,  eaten  by  swarming 
worms,  he  would  be  in  a  purer  company  than  now, 
when  he  lived  amongst  human  creatures.  And  he 
was  to  call  this  loathsome  beast,  all  sting  and  filth, 
brother!  'I  had  rather  call  the  devils  my 
brothers,'  he  said  in  his  heart,  'I  would  fare 
better  in  hell.'  Blood  was  in  his  eyes,  and  as  he 
looked  up  the  sky  seemed  of  blood,  and  the  earth 
burnt  with  fire. 

The  sun  was  sinking  low  on  the  mountain  when 
he  set  out  on  the  way  again.  Burrows,  the  doctor, 
coming  home  in  his  trap,  met  him  a  little  lower  on 
the  road,  and  gave  him  a  friendly  good-night. 

'A  long  way  round  on  this  road,  isn't  it?'  said 
the  doctor.  'As  you  have  come  so  far,  why  don't 
you  try  the  short  cut  across  the  fields?  You  will 
find  it  easily  enough;  second  stile  on  the  left  hand, 
and  then  go  straight  ahead.' 

He  thanked  Dr.  Burrows  and  said  he  would 
try  the  short  cut,  and  Burrows  span  on  home- 
ward. He  was  a  gruff  and  honest  bachelor,  and 
often  felt  very  sorry  for  the  lad,  and  wished  he 
could  help  him.  As  he  drove  on,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Lucian  had  an  awful  look  on 
his  face,  and  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  asked  him 
to  jump  in,  and  come  to  supper.  A  hearty  slice 
of  beef,  with  strong  ale,  whisky  and  soda  after- 
wards, a  good  pipe,  and  certain  Rabelaisian  tales 

57 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

which  the  doctor  had  treasured  for  many  years, 
would  have  done  the  poor  fellow  a  lot  of  good, 
he  was  certain.  He  half  turned  round  on  his  seat, 
and  looked  to  see  if  Lucian  were  still  in  sight,  but 
he  had  passed  the  corner,  and  the  doctor  drove  on, 
shivering  a  little;  the  mists  were  beginning  to  rise 
from  the  wet  banks  of  the  river. 

Lucian  trailed  slowly  along  the  road,  keeping  a 
look  out  for  the  stile  the  doctor  had  mentioned. 
It  would  be  a  little  of  an  adventure,  he  thought, 
to  find  his  way  by  an  unknown  track;  he  knew 
the  direction  in  which  his  home  lay  and  he  imagined 
he  would  not  have  much  difficulty  in  crossing  from 
one  stile  to  another.  The  path  led  him  up  a  steep 
bare  field,  and  when  he  was  at  the  top,  the  town 
and  the  valley  winding  up  to  the  north  stretched 
before  him.  The  river  was  stilled  at  the  flood,  and 
the  yellow  water,  reflecting  the  sunset,  glowed  in  its 
deep  pools  like  dull  brass.  These  burning  pools, 
the  level  meadows  fringed  with  shuddering  reeds, 
the  long  dark  sweep  of  the  forest  on  the  hill,  were 
all  clear  and  distinct,  yet  the  light  seemed  to  have 
clothed  them  with  a  new  garment,  even  as  voices 
from  the  streets  of  Caermaen  sounded  strangely, 
mounting  up  thin  with  the  smoke.  There  beneath 
him  lay  the  huddled  cluster  of  Caermaen,  the  ragged 
and  uneven  roofs  that  marked  the  winding  and 
shabby  streets,  here  and  there  a  pointed  gable  rising 
above  its  meaner  fellows;  beyond  he  recognized 

58 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  piled  mounds  that  marked  the  circle  of  the 
amphitheatre,  and  the  dark  edge  of  trees  that  grew 
where  the  Roman  wall  whitened  and  waxed  old 
beneath  the  frosts  and  rains  of  eighteen  hundred 
years.  Thin  and  strange,  mingled  together,  the 
voices  came  up  to  him  on  the  hill;  it  was  as  if  an 
outland  race  inhabited  the  ruined  city  and  talked 
in  a  strange  language  of  strange  and  terrible  things. 
The  sun  had  slid  down  the  sky,  and  hung  quivering 
over  the  huge  dark  dome  of  the  mountain  like  a 
burnt  sacrifice,  and  then  suddenly  vanished.  In  the 
afterglow  the  clouds  began  to  writhe  and  turn  scar- 
let, and  shone  so  strangely  reflected  in  the  pools  of 
the  snake-like  river,  that  one  would  have  said  the 
still  waters  stirred,  the  fleeting  and  changing  of  the 
clouds  seeming  to  quicken  the  stream,  as  if  it  bub- 
bled and  sent  up  gouts  of  blood.  But  already  about 
the  town  the  darkness  was  forming;  fast,  fast  the 
shadows  crept  upon  it  from  the  forest,  and  from 
all  sides  banks  and  wreaths  of  curling  mist  were 
gathering,  as  if  a  ghostly  leaguer  were  being  built 
up  against  the  city,  and  the  strange  race  who  lived 
in  its  streets.  Suddenly  there  burst  out  from  the 
stillness  the  clear  and  piercing  music  of  the  reveille, 
calling,  recalling,  iterated,  reiterated,  and  ending 
with  one  long  high  fierce  shrill  note  with  which  the 
steep  hills  rang.  Perhaps  a  boy  in  the  school  band 
was  practising  on  his  bugle,  but  for  Lucian  it  was 
magic.  For  him  it  was  the  note  of  the  Roman 

59 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

trumpet,  tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum,  filling  all  the 
hollow  valley  with  its  command,  reverberated  in  the 
dark  places  in  the  far  forest,  and  resonant  in  the 
old  graveyards  without  the  walls.  In  his  imagina- 
tion he  saw  the  earthern  gates  of  the  tombs  broken 
open,  and  the  serried  legion  swarming  to  the  eagles. 
Century  by  century  they  passed  up ;  they  rose,  drip- 
ping, from  the  river  bed,  they  rose  from  the  level, 
their  armour  shone  in  the  quiet  orchard,  they  gath- 
ered in  ranks  and  companies  from  the  cemetery,  and 
as  the  trumpet  sounded,  the  hill  fort  above  the  town 
gave  up  its  dead.  By  hundreds  and  thousands  the 
ghostly  battle  surged  about  the  standard,  behind  the 
quaking  mist,  ready  to  march  against  the  moulder- 
ing walls  they  had  built  so  many  years  before. 

He  turned  sharply;  it  was  growing  very  dark, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  missing  his  way.  At  first  the 
path  led  him  by  the  verge  of  a  wood;  there  was 
a  noise  of  rustling  and  murmuring  from  the  trees 
as  if  they  were  taking  evil  counsel  together.  A 
high  hedge  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  darkening 
valley,  and  he  stumbled  on  mechanically,  without 
taking  much  note  of  the  turnings  of  the  track, 
and  when  he  came  out  from  the  wood  shadow  to 
the  open  country,  he  stood  for  a  moment  quite 
bewildered  and  uncertain.  A  dark  wild  twilight 
country  lay  before  him,  confused  dim  shapes  of 
trees  near  at  hand,  and  a  hollow  below  his  feet, 
and  the  further  hills  and  woods  were  dimmer,  and 

60 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

all  the  air  was  very  still.  He  gazed  about  him, 
scanning  the  dusky  earth,  and  trying  to  make  out 
some  familiar  shape,  some  well-known  form  of  hill 
or  wood.  Suddenly  the  darkness  about  him 
glowed;  a  furnace  fire  had  shot  up  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  for  a  moment  the  little  world  of  the 
woodside  and  the  steep  hill  shone  in  a  pale  light, 
and  he  thought  he  saw  his  path  beaten  out  in  the 
turf  before  him.  The  great  flame  sank  down  to 
a  red  glint  of  fire,  and  it  led  him  on  down  the 
ragged  slope,  his  feet  striking  against  ridges  of 
ground,  and  falling  from  beneath  him  at  a  sudden 
dip.  The  bramble  bushes  shot  out  long  prickly 
vines,  amongst  which  he  was  entangled,  and  lower 
he  was  held  back  by  wet  bubbling  earth.  He 
had  descended  into  a  dark  and  shady  valley,  beset 
and  tapestried  with  gloomy  thickets;  the  weird  wood 
noises  were  the  only  sounds,  strange,  unutterable 
mutterings,  dismal,  inarticulate.  He  pushed  on  in 
what  he  hoped  was  the  right  direction,  stumbling 
from  stile  to  gate,  peering  through  mist  and  shadow, 
and  still  vainly  seeking  for  any  known  landmark. 
Presently  another  sound  broke  upon  the  grim  air, 
the  murmur  of  water  poured  over  stones,  gurgling 
against  the  old  misshapen  roots  of  trees,  and  run- 
ning clear  in  a  deep  channel.  He  passed  into  the 
chill  breath  of  the  brook,  and  almost  fancied  he 
heard  two  voices  speaking  in  its  murmur;  there 
seemed  a  ceaseless  utterance  of  words,  an  endless 

61 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

argument.     With  a  mood  of  horror  pressing  on 
him,  he  listened  to  the  noise  of  waters,  and  the 
wild  fancy  seized  him  that  he  was  not  deceived, 
that  two  unknown  beings  stood  together  there  in  the 
darkness  and  tried  the  balances   of  his  life,   and 
spoke  his  doom.     The  hour  in  the  matted  thicket 
rushed  over  the  great  bridge  of  years  to  his  thought; 
he  had  sinned  against  the  earth,  and  the  earth  trem- 
bled and  shook  for  vengeance.     He  stayed  still  for 
a  moment,  quivering  with  fear,  and  at  last  went 
on  blindly,  no  longer  caring  for  the  path,  if  only 
he  might  escape  from  the  toils  of  that  dismal  shud- 
dering hollow.     As  he  plunged  through  the  hedges 
the  bristling  thorns  tore  his  face  and  hands;  he  fell 
amongst  stinging-nettles  and  was  pricked  as  he  beat 
out  his  way  amidst  the  gorse.     He  raced  headlong, 
his  head  over  his  shoulder,  through  a  windy  wood, 
bare  of  undergrowth;  there  lay  about  the  ground 
mouldering  stumps,   the   relics   of  trees  that   had 
thundered  to   their   fall,   crashing  and  tearing  to 
earth,   long   ago;   and   from   these   remains   there 
flowed  out  a  pale  thin  radiance,  filling  the  spaces 
of  the  sounding  wood  with  a  dream  of  light.     He 
had  lost  all  count  of  the  track;  he  felt  he  had  fled 
for  hours,  climbing  and  descending,   and  yet  not 
advancing;  it  was  as  if  he  stood  still  and  the  shadows 
of  the  land  went  by,  in  a  vision.     But  at  last  a 
hedge,  high  and  straggling,  rose  before  him,  and  as 

62 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  broke  through  it,  his  feet  slipped,  and  he  fell 
headlong  down  a  steep  bank  into  a  lane.  He  lay 
still,  half-stunned,  for  a  moment,  and  then  rising 
unsteadily,  he  looked  desperately  into  the  darkness 
before  him,  uncertain  and  bewildered.  In  front  it 
was  black  as  a  midnight  cellar,  and  he  turned  about, 
and  saw  a  glint  in  the  distance,  as  if  a  candle 
were  flickering  in  a  farm-house  window.  He  began 
to  walk  with  trembling  feet  towards  the  light,  when 
suddenly  something  pale  started  out  from  the 
shadows  before  him,  and  seemed  to  swim  and  float 
down  the  air.  He  was  going  down  hill,  and  he 
hastened  onwards,  and  he  could  see  the  bars  of  a 
stile  framed  dimly  against  the  sky,  and  the  figure 
still  advanced  with  that  gliding  motion.  Then,  as 
the  road  declined  to  the  valley,  the  landmark  he 
had  been  seeking  appeared.  To  his  right  there 
surged  up  in  the  darkness  the  darker  summit  of  the 
Roman  fort,  and  the  streaming  fire  of  the  great  full 
moon  glowed  through  the  bars  of  the  wizard  oaks, 
and  made  a  halo  shine  about  the  hill.  He  was  now 
quite  close  to  the  white  appearance,  and  saw  that 
it  was  only  a  woman  walking  swiftly  down  the 
lane;  the  floating  movement  was  an  effect  due  to 
the  sombre  air  and  the  moon's  glamour.  At  the 
gate,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours  gazing  at 
the  fort,  they  walked  foot  to  foot,  and  he  saw  it 
was  Annie  Morgan. 

63 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'Good  evening,  Master  Lucian,'  said  the  girl, 
'it's  very  dark,  sir,  indeed.' 

'Good  evening,  Annie,'  he  answered  calling  her 
by  her  name  for  the  first  time,  and  he  saw  that  she 
smiled  with  pleasure.  'You  are  out  late,  aren't 
you?' 

'Yes,  sir;  but  I've  been  taking  a  bit  of  supper 
to  old  Mrs.  Gibbon.  She's  been  very  poorly  the 
last  few  days,  and  there's  nobody  to  do  anything 
for  her.' 

Then  there  were  really  people  who  helped  one 
another;  kindness  and  pity  were  not  mere  myths, 
fictions  of  'society,'  as  useful  as  Doe  and  Roe,  and 
as  non-existent.  The  thought  struck  Lucian  with 
a  shock;  the  evening's  passion  and  delirium, 
the  wild  walk  and  physical  fatigue  had  almost 
shattered  him  in  body  and  mind.  He  was  'de- 
generate,' decadent,  and  the  rough  rains  and 
blustering  winds  of  life,  which  a  stronger  man  would 
have  laughed  at  and  enjoyed,  were  to  him  'hail- 
storms and  fire-showers.'  After  all,  Messrs.  Beit, 
the  publishers,  were  only  sharp  men  of  business,  and 
these  terrible  Dixons  and  Gervases  and  Colleys 
merely  the  ordinary  limited  clergy  and  gentry  of  a 
quiet  country  town;  sturdier  sense  would  have  dis- 
missed Dixon  as  an  old  humbug,  Stanley  Gervase, 
Esquire,  J.  P.,  as  a  'bit  of  a  bounder,'  and  the 
ladies  as  'rather  a  shoddy  lot'  But  he  was  walk- 
ing slowly  now,  in  painful  silence,  his  heavy,  lag- 

64 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ging  feet  striking  against  the  loose  stones.  He  was 
not  thinking  of  the  girl  beside  him;  only  something 
seemed  to  swell  and  grow  and  swell  within  his 
heart;  it  was  all  the  torture  of  his  days,  weary  hopes 
and  weary  disappointment,  scorn  rankling  and  throb- 
bing, and  the  thought  'I  had  rather  call  the  devils 
my  brothers  and  live  with  them  in  hell.'  He 
choked  and  gasped  for  breath,  and  felt  involun- 
tary muscles  working  in  his  face,  and  the  impulses 
of  a  madman  stirring  him;  he  himself  was  in  truth 
the  realisation  of  the  vision  of  Caermaen  that  night, 
a  city  with  mouldering  walls  beset  by  the  ghostly 
legion.  Life  and  the  world  and  the  laws  of  the 
sunlight  had  passed  away,  and  the  resurrection  and 
kingdom  of  the  dead  began.  The  Celt  assailed 
him,  beckoning  from  the  weird  wood  he  called  the 
world,  and  his  far-off  ancestors,  the  'little  people' 
crept  out  of  their  caves,  muttering  charms  and 
incantations  in  hissing  inhuman  speech;  he  was  be- 
leagured  by  desires  that  had  slept  in  his  race  for 
ages. 

'I  am  afraid  you  are  very  tired,  Master  Lucian. 
Would  you  like  me  to  give  you  my  hand  over  this 
rough  bit?' 

He  had  stumbled  against  a  great  round  stone 
and  had  nearly  fallen.  The  woman's  hand  sought 
his  in  the  darkness,  as  he  felt  the  touch  of  her  soft 
warm  flesh,  he  moaned,  and  a  pang  shot  through 
his  arm  to  his  heart.  He  looked  up  and  found  he 

6s 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

had  only  walked  a  few  paces  since  Annie  had  spoken; 
he  had  thought  they  had  wandered  for  hours  to- 
gether. The  moon  was  just  mounting  above  the 
oaks,  and  the  halo  round  the  dark  hill  brightened. 
He  stopped  short,  and  keeping  his  hold  of  Annie's 
hand,  looked  into  her  face.  A  hazy  glory  of  moon- 
light shone  around  them  and  lit  up  their  eyes.  He 
had  not  greatly  altered  since  his  boyhood;  his  face 
was  pale  olive  in  colour,  thin  and  oval ;  marks  of 
pain  had  gathered  about  the  eyes,  and  his  black 
hair  was  already  stricken  with  grey.  But  the  eager 
curious  gaze  still  remained,  and  what  he  saw  be- 
fore him  lit  up  his  sadness  with  a  new  fire.  She 
stopped  too,  and  did  not  offer  to  draw  away,  but 
looked  back  with  all  her  heart.  They  were  alike 
in  many  ways ;  her  skin  was  also  of  that  olive  colour, 
but  her  face  was  sweet  as  a  beautiful  summer  night, 
and  her  black  eyes  showed  no  dimness,  and  the 
smile  on  the  scarlet  lips  was  like  a  flame  when  it 
brightens  a  dark  and  lonely  land. 

'You  are  sorely  tired,  Master  Lucian,  let  us  sit 
down  here  by  the  gate.' 

It  was  Lucian  who  spoke  next:  'My  dear,  my 
dear!'  And  their  lips  were  together  again,  and 
their  arms  locked  together,  each  holding  the  other 
fast.  And  then  the  poor  lad  let  his  head  sink 
down  on  his  sweetheart's  breast,  and  burst  into  a 
passion  of  weeping.  The  tears  streamed  down  his 
face,  and  he  shook  with  sobbing,  in  the  happiest 

66 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

moment  that  he  had  ever  lived.  The  woman  bent 
over  him  and  tried  to  comfort  him,  but  his  tears 
were  his  consolation  and  his  triumph.  Annie  was 
whispering  to  him,  her  hand  laid  on  his  heart;  she 
was  whispering  beautiful,  wonderful  words,  that 
soothed  him  as  a  song.  He  did  not  know  what 
they  meant. 

'Annie,  dear,  dear  Annie,  what  are  you  saying 
to  me?  I  have  never  heard  such  beautiful  words. 
Tell  me,  Annie,  what  do  they  mean?' 

She  laughed  and  said  it  was  only  nonsense  that 
the  nurses  sang  to  the  children. 

'No,  no,  you  are  not  to  call  me  Master  Lucian 
any  more,'  he  said,  when  they  parted,  'you  must 
call  me  Lucian;  and  I,  I  worship  you,  my  dear 
Annie.' 

He  fell  down  before  her,  embracing  her  knees, 
and  adored,  and  she  allowed  him,  and  confirmed 
his  worship.  He  followed  slowly  after  her,  pass- 
ing the  path  which  led  to  her  home  with  a  longing 
glance.  Nobody  saw  any  difference  in  Lucian  when 
he  reached  the  rectory.  He  came  in  with  his  usual 
dreamy  indifference,  and  told  how  he  had  lost  his 
way  by  trying  the  short  cut.  He  said  he  had  met 
Dr.  Burrows  on  the  road,  and  that  he  had  recom- 
mended the  path  by  the  fields.  Then,  as  dully  as 
if  he  had  been  reading  some  story  out  of  a  news- 
paper, he  gave  his  father  the  outlines  of  the  Beit 
case,  producing  the  pretty  little  book  called  The 

67 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Chorus  in  Green.  The  parson  listened  in  amaze- 
ment. 

'You  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  wrote  this  book?' 
he  said.  He  was  quite  roused. 

'No;  not  all  of  it.  Look;  this  bit  is  mine,  and 
that;  and  the  beginning  of  this  chapter.  Nearly 
the  whole  of  the  third  chapter  is  by  me.' 

He  closed  the  book  without  interest,  and  indeed 
he  felt  astonished  at  his  father's  excitement.  The 
incident  seemed  to  him;  unimportant. 

'And  you  say  that  eighty  or  ninety  pages  of 
this  book  are  yours,  and  these  scoundrels  have 
stolen  your  work?' 

'Well,  I  suppose  they  have.  I'll  fetch  the  manu- 
script, if  you  would  like  to  look  at  it.' 

The  manuscript  was  duly  produced,  wrapped  in 
brown  paper,  with  Messrs.  Beit's  address  label  on 
it,  and  the  post-office  dated  stamps. 

'And  the   other  book  has  been   out   a   month.' 

The  parson,  forgetting  the  sacerdotal  office,  and 
his  good  habit  of  grinning,  swore  at  Messrs.  Beit 
and  Mr.  Ritson,  calling  them  damned  thieves,  and 
then  began  to  read  the  manuscript,  and  to  compare 
it  with  the  printed  book. 

'Why,  it's  splendid  work.  My  poor  fellow,'  he 
said  after  a  while,  'I  had  no  notion  you  could  write 
so  well.  I  used  to  think  of  such  things  in  the  old 
days  at  Oxford;  'old  Bill,'  the  tutor,  used  to  praise 
my  essays,  but  I  never  wrote  anything  like  this. 

68 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

And  this  infernal  ruffian  of  a  Ritson  has  taken  all 
your  best  things  and  mixed  them  up  with  his  own 
rot  to  make  it  go  down.  Of  course  you'll  expose 
the  gang?' 

Lucian  was  mildly  amused;  he  couldn't  enter  into 
his  father's  feelings  at  all.  He  sat  smoking  in 
one  of  the  old  easy  chairs,  taking  the  rare  relish  of  a 
hot  grog  with  his  pipe,  and  gazing  out  of  his 
dreamy  eyes  at  the  violent  old  parson.  He  was 
pleased  that  his  father  liked  his  book,  because  he 
knew  him  to  be  a  deep  and  sober  scholar  and  a 
cool  judge  of  good  letters;  but  he  laughed  to  him- 
self when  he  saw  the  magic  of  print.  The  parson 
had  expressed  no  wish  to  read  the  manuscript  when 
it  came  back  in  disgrace;  he  had  merely  grinned, 
said  something  about  boomerangs,  and  quoted 
Horace  with  relish.  Whereas  now,  before  the  book 
in  its  neat  case,  lettered  with  another  man's  name, 
his  approbation  of  the  writing  and  his  disapproval 
of  the  'scoundrels,'  as  he  called  them,  were  loudly 
expressed,  and  though  a  good  smoker,  he  blew  and 
puffed  vehemently  at  his  pipe. 

'You'll  expose  the  rascals,  of  course,  won't  you?' 
he  said  again. 

'Oh  no,  I  think  not.  It  really  doesn't  matter 
much,  does  it?  After  all,  there  are  some  very 
weak  things  in  the  book;  doesn't  it  strike  you  as 
'young?'  I  have  been  thinking  of  another  plan, 
but  I  haven't  done  much  with  it  lately.  But  I 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

believe  I've  got  hold  of  a  really  good  idea  this 
time,  and  if  I  can  manage  to  see  the  heart  of  it  I 
hope  to  turn  out  a  manuscript  worth  stealing. 
But  it's  so  hard  to  get  at  the  core  of  an  idea — the 
heart,  as  I  call  it,'  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  'It's 
like  having  a  box  you  can't  open,  though  you  know 
there's  something  wonderful  inside.  But  I  do  be- 
lieve I've  a  fine  thing  in  my  hands,  and  I  mean  to 
try  my  best  to  work  it.' 

Lucian  talked  with  enthusiasm  now,  but  his 
father,  on  his  side,  could  not  share  these  ardours. 
It  was  his  part  to  be  astonished  at  excitement  over 
a  book  that  was  not  even  begun,  the  mere  ghost 
of  a  book  flitting  elusive  in  the  world  of  unborn 
masterpieces  and  failures.  He  had  loved  good 
letters,  but  he  shared  unconsciously  in  the  general 
belief  that  literary  attempt  is  always  pitiful,  though 
he  did  not  subscribe  to  the  other  half  of  the  popular 
faith — that  literary  success  is  a  matter  of  very  little 
importance.  He  thought  well  of  books,  but  only  of 
printed  books;  in  manuscripts  he  put  no  faith,  and 
the  paulo-post-futurum  tense  he  could  not  in  any 
maner  conjugate.  He  returned  once  more  to  the 
topic  of  palpable  interest. 

'But  about  this  dirty  trick  these  fellows  have 
played  on  you.  You  won't  sit  down  quietly  and 
bear  it,  surely?  It's  only  a  question  of  writing  to 
the  papers.' 

They  wouldn't  put  the  letter  in.     And  if  they 
70 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

did,  I  should  only  get  laughed  at.  Some  time  ago 
a  man  wrote  to  the  Reader,  complaining  of  his  play 
being  stolen.  He  said  that  he  had  sent  a  little 
one-act  comedy  to  Burleigh,  the  great  dramatist, 
asking  for  his  advice.  Burleigh  gave  his  advice  and 
took  the  idea  for  his  own  very  successful  play.  So 
the  man  said,  and  I  daresay  it  was  true  enough. 
But  the  victim  got  nothing  by  his  complaint.  "A 
pretty  state  of  things,"  everybody  said.  "Here's 
a  Mr.  Tomson,  that  no  one  has  ever  heard  of, 
bothers  Burleigh  with  his  rubbish,  and  then  accuses 
him  of  petty  larceny.  Is  it  likely  that  a  man  of 
Burleigh's  position,  a  playwright  who  can  make  his 
five  thousand  a  year  easily,  would  borrow  from  an 
unknown  Tomson?"  I  should  think  it  very  likely, 
indeed,'  Lucian  went  on,  chuckling,  'but  that  was 
the  verdict.  No;  I  don't  think  I'll  write  to  the 
papers.' 

'Well,  well,  my  boy,  I  suppose  you  know  your 
own  business  best.  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  but 
you  must  do  as  you  like.' 

'It's  all  so  unimportant,'  said  Lucian,  and  he 
really  thought  so.  He  had  sweeter  things  to  dream 
of,  and  desired  no  communion  of  feeling  with  that 
madman  who  had  left  Caermaen  some  four  hours 
before.  He  felt  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself, 
he  was  ashamed  to  think  of  the  fatuity  of  which 
he  had  been  guilty;  such  boiling  hatred  was  not 
only  wicked,  but  absurd.  A  man  could  do  no  good 

71 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

who  put  himself  into  a  position  of  such  violent 
antagonism  against  his  fellow-creatures;  so  Lucian 
rebuked  his  heart,  saying  that  he  was  old  enough 
to  know  better.  But  he  remembered  that  he  had 
sweeter  things  to  dream  of;  there  was  a  secret 
ecstasy  that  he  treasured  and  locked  tight  away, 
as  a  joy  too  exquisite  even  for  thought  till  he  was 
quite  alone;  and  then  there  was  that  scheme  for  a 
new  book  that  he  had  laid  down  hopelessly  some 
time  ago;  it  seemed  to  have  arisen  into  life  again 
within  the  last  hour;  he  understood  that  he  had 
started  on  a  false  tack,  he  had  taken  the  wrong 
aspect  of  his  idea.  Of  course  the  thing  couldn't 
be  written  in  that  way;  it  was  like  trying  to  read  a 
page  turned  upside  down;  and  he  saw  those  char- 
acters he  had  vainly  sought  suddenly  disambushed, 
and  a  splendid  inevitable  sequence  of  events  un- 
rolled before  him. 

It  was  a  true  resurrection;  the  dry  plot  he  had 
constructed  revealed  itself  as  a  living  thing,  stir- 
ring and  mysterious,  and  warm  as  life  itself.  The 
parson  was  smoking  stolidly  to  all  appearance,  but 
in  reality  he  was  full  of  amazement  at  his  own 
son,  and  now  and  again  he  slipped  sly  furtive 
glances  towards  the  tranquil  young  man  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  empty  hearth.  In  the  first  place,  Mr. 
Taylor  was  genuinely  impressed  by  what  he  had 
read  of  Lucian's  work;  he  had  so  long  been  ac- 
customed to  look  upon  all  effort  as  futile,  that 

72 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

success  amazed  him.  In  the  abstract,  of  course, 
he  was  prepared  to  admit  that  some  people  did 
write  well  and  got  published  and  made  money,  just 
as  other  persons  successfully  backed  an  outsider  at 
heavy  odds;  but  it  had  seemed  as  improbable  that 
Lucian  should  show  even  the  beginnings  of  achieve- 
ment in  one  direction  as  in  the  other.  Then  the 
boy  evidently  cared  so  little  about  it;  he  did  not 
appear  to  be  proud  of  being  worth  robbing,  nor 
was  he  angry  with  the  robbers. 

He  sat  back  luxuriously  in  the  disreputable  old 
chair,  drawing  long  slow  wreaths  of  smoke,  tasting 
his  whisky  from  time  to  time,  and  evidently  well 
at  ease  with  himself.  The  father  saw  him  smile, 
and  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him  that  his  son  was 
very  handsome;  he  had  such  kind  gentle  eyes  and 
a  kind  mouth,  and  his  pale  cheeks  were  flushed  like 
a  girl's.  Mr.  Taylor  felt  moved.  What  a  harm- 
less young  fellow  Lucian  had  been;  no  doubt  a  little 
queer  and  different  from  others,  but  wholly  inof- 
fensive, and  patient  under  disappointment  and  Miss 
Deacon.  Her  contribution  to  the  evening's  dis- 
cussion had  been  characteristic;  she  had  remarked, 
firstly,  that  writing  was  a  very  unsettling  occupation, 
and  secondly,  that  it  was  extremely  foolish  to  en- 
trust one's  property  to  people  of  whom  one  knew 
nothing.  Father  and  son  had  smiled  together  at 
these  observations,  which  were  probably  true 
enough.  Mr.  Taylor  at  last  left  Lucian  alone;  he 

73 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

shook  hands  with  a  good  deal  of  respect,  and  said, 
almost  deferentially: 

'You  mustn't  work  too  hard,  old  fellow.  I 
wouldn't  stay  up  too  late,  if  I  were  you,  after  that 
long  walk.  You  must  have  gone  miles  out  of  your 
way.' 

'I'm  not  tired  now,  though.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
write  my  new  book  on  the  spot';  and  the  young 
man  laughed  a  gay  sweet  laugh  that  struck  the 
father  as  a  new  note  in  his  son's  life. 

He  sat  still  a  moment  after  his  father  had  left 
the  room.  He  cherished  his  chief  treasure  of 
thought  in  its  secret  place;  he  would  not  enjoy  it 
yet.  He  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  table  at  which  he 
wrote,  or  tried  to  write,  and  began  taking  pens 
and  paper  from  the  drawer.  There  was  a  great 
pile  of  ruled  paper  there;  all  of  it  used,  on  one 
side,  and  signifying  many  hours  of  desperate  scrib- 
bling, of  heart-searching  and  rack  of  his  brain;  an 
array  of  poor,  eager  lines  written  by  a  waning  fire 
with  waning  hope;  all  useless  and  abandoned.  He 
took  up  the  sheets  cheerfully,  and  began  in  delicious 
idleness  to  look  over  these  fruitless  efforts.  A  page 
caught  his  attention;  he  remembered  how  he  wrote 
it  while  a  November  storm  was  dashing  against  the 
panes;  and  there  was  another,  with  a  queer  blot 
in  one  corner;  he  had  got  up  from  his  chair  and 
looked  out,  and  all  the  earth  was  white  fairyland, 

74 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  the  snowflakes  whirled  round  and  round  in  the 
wind.  Then  he  saw  the  chapter  begun  of  a  night  in 
March:  a  great  gale  blew  that  night  and  rooted 
up  one  of  the  ancient  yews  in  the  churchyard.  He 
had  heard  the  trees  shrieking  in  the  woods,  and 
the  long  wail  of  the  wind,  and  across  the  heaven  a 
white  moon  fled  awfully  before  the  streaming  clouds. 
And  all  these  poor  abandoned  pages  now  seemed 
sweet,  and  past  unhappiness  was  transmuted  into 
happiness,  and  the  nights  of  toil  were  holy.  He 
turned  over  half  a  dozen  leaves  and  began  to  sketch 
out  the  outlines  of  the  new  book  on  the  unused 
pages;  running  out  a  skeleton  plan  on  one  page, 
and  dotting  fancies,  suggestions,  hints  on  others. 
He  wrote  rapidly,  overjoyed  to  find  that  loving 
phrases  grew  under  his  pen;  a  particular  scene  he 
had  imagined  filled  him  with  desire;  he  gave  his 
hand  free  course,  and  saw  the  written  work  glow- 
ing; and  action  and  all  the  heat  of  existence  quick- 
ened and  beat  on  the  wet  page.  Happy  fancies 
took  shape  in  happier  words,  and  when  at  last  he 
leant  back  in  his  chair  he  felt  the  stir  and  rush  of 
the  story  as  if  it  had  been  some  portion  of  his  own 
life.  He  read  over  what  he  had  done  with  a  re- 
newed pleasure  in  the  nimble  and  flowing  work- 
manship, and  as  he  put  the  little  pile  of  manuscript 
tenderly  in  the  drawer  he  paused  to  enjoy  the 
anticipation  of  to-morrow's  labour. 

75 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

And  then but  the  rest  of  the  night  was  given 

to  tender  and  delicious  things,  and  when  he  went 
up  to  bed  a  scarlet  dawn  was  streaming  from  the 
east. 


Ill 

FOR  days  Lucian  lay  in  a  swoon  of  pleasure, 
smiling  when  he  was  addressed,  sauntering 
happily  in  the  sunlight,  hugging  recollection 
warm  to  his  heart.  Annie  had  told  him  that  she 
was  going  on  a  visit  to  her  married  sister,  and  said, 
with  a  caress,  that  he  must  be  patient.  He  pro- 
tested against  her  absence,  but  she  fondled  him, 
whispering  her  charms  in  his  ear  till  he  gave  in, 
and  then  they  said  good-bye,  Lucian  adoring  on  his 
knees.  The  parting  was  as  strange  as  the  meeting, 
and  that  night  when  he  laid  his  work  aside,  and  let 
himself  sink  deep  into  the  joys  of  memory,  all  the 
encounter  seemed  as  wonderful  and  impossible  as 
magic. 

'And  you  really  don't  mean  to  do  anything  about 
those  rascals?'  said  his  father. 

'Rascals?  Which  rascals?  Oh,  you  mean  Beit. 
I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  No;  I  don't  think  I 
shall  trouble.  They're  not  worth  powder  and 
shot.' 

And  he  returned  to  his  dream,  pacing  slowly  from 
the  medlar  to  the  quince  and  back  again.  It  seemed 
trivial  to  be  interrupted  by  such  questions;  he  had 

77 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

not  even  time  to  think  of  the  book  he  had  recom- 
menced so  eagerly,  much  less  of  this  labour  of  long 
ago.  He  recollected  without  interest  that  it  cost 
him  many  pains,  that  it  was  pretty  good  here  and 
there,  and  that  it  had  been  stolen,  and  it  seemed 
that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  on  the  mat- 
ter. He  wished  to  think  of  the  darkness  in  the 
lane,  of  the  kind  voice  that  spoke  to  him,  of  the 
kind  hand  that  sought  his  own,  as  he  stumbled  on 
the  rough  way.  So  far,  it  was  wonderful.  Since 
he  had  left  school  and  lost  the  company  of  the 
worthy  barbarians  who  had  befriended  him  there, 
he  had  almost  lost  the  sense  of  kinship  with  hu- 
manity; he  had  come  to  dread  the  human  form 
as  men  dread  the  hood  of  the  cobra.  To  Lucian  a 
man  or  a  woman  meant  something  that  stung,  that 
spoke  words  that  rankled,  and  poisoned  his  life 
with  scorn.  At  first  such  malignity  shocked  him: 
he  would  ponder  over  words  and  glances  and  won- 
der if  he  were  not  mistaken,  and  he  still  sought  now 
and  then  for  sympathy.  The  poor  boy  had  ro- 
mantic ideas  about  women;  he  believed  they  were 
merciful  and  pitiful,  very  kind  to  the  unlucky  and 
helpless.  Men  perhaps  had  to  be  different;  after 
all,  the  duty  of  a  man  was  to  get  on  in  the  world, 
or,  in  plain  language,  to  make  money,  to  be  suc- 
cessful; to  cheat  rather  than  to  be  cheated,  but 
always  to  be  successful;  and  he  could  understand 
that  one  who  fell  below  this  high  standard  must 

78 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

expect  to  be  severely  judged  by  his  fellows.  For 
example,  there  was  young  Bennett,  Miss  Spurry's 
nephew.  Lucian  had  met  him  once  or  twice  when 
he  was  spending  his  holidays  with  Miss  Spurry, 
and  the  two  young  fellows  had  compared  literary 
notes  together.  Bennett  showed  some  beautiful 
things  he  had  written,  over  which  Lucian  had  grown 
both  sad  and  enthusiastic.  It  was  such  exquisite 
magic  verse,  and  so  much  better  than  anything  he 
ever  hoped  to  write,  that  there  was  a  touch  of 
anguish  in  his  congratulations.  But  when  Bennett, 
after  many  vain  prayers  to  his  aunt,  threw  up  a 
safe  position  in  the  bank,  and  betook  himself  to  a 
London  garret,  Lucian  was  not  surprised  at  the 
general  verdict. 

Mr.  Dixon,  as  a  clergyman,  viewed  the  question 
from  a  high  standpoint  and  found  it  all  deplorable, 
but  the  general  opinion  was  that  Bennett  was  a 
hopeless  young  lunatic.  Old  Mr.  Gervase  went 
purple  when  his  name  was  mentioned,  and  the 
young  Dixons  sneered  very  merrily  over  the  ad- 
venture. 

'I  always  thought  he  was  a  beastly  young  ass,' 
said  Edward  Dixon,  'but  I  didn't  think  he'd  chuck 
away  his  chances  like  that.  Said  he  couldn't  stand 
a  bank!  I  hope  he'll  be  able  to  stand  bread  and 
water.  That's  all  those  littery  fellows  get,  I  be- 
lieve, except  Tennyson  and  Mark  Twain  and  those 
sort  of  people.' 

79 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Lucian  of  course  sympathised  with  the  unfortu- 
nate Bennett,  but  such  judgments  were  after  all 
only  natural.  The  young  man  might  have  stayed 
in  the  bank  and  succeeded  to  his  aunt's  thousand  a 
year,  and  everybody  would  have  called  him  a  very 
nice  young  fellow — 'clever,  too.'  But  he  had  de- 
liberately chosen,  as  Edward  Dixon  had  said,  to 
chuck  his  chances  away  for  the  sake  of  literature; 
piety  and  a  sense  of  the  main  chance  had  alike 
pointed  the  way  to  a  delicate  course  of  wheedling, 
to  a  little  harmless  practising  on  Miss  Spurry's  in- 
firmities, to  frequent  compliances  of  a  soothing  na- 
ture, and  the  'young  ass'  had  been  blind  to  the 
direction  of  one  and  the  other.  It  seemed  almost 
right  that  the  vicar  should  moralise,  that  Edward 
Dixon  should  sneer,  and  that  Mr.  Gervase  should 
grow  purple  with  contempt.  Men,  Lucian  thought, 
were  like  judges,  who  may  pity  the  criminal  in  their 
hearts,  but  are  forced  to  vindicate  the  outraged 
majesty  of  the  law  by  a  severe  sentence.  He  felt 
the  same  considerations  applied  to  his  own  case; 
he  knew  that  his  father  should  have  had  more 
money,  that  his  clothes  should  be  newer  and  of  a 
better  cut,  that  he  should  have  gone  to  the  uni- 
versity and  made  good  friends.  If  such  had  been 
his  fortune  he  could  have  looked  his  fellow-men 
proudly  in  the  face,  upright  and  unashamed.  Hav- 
ing put  on  the  whole  armour  of  a  first-rate  West 
End  tailor,  with  money  in  his  purse,  having  taken 

80 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

anxious  thought  for  the  morrow,  and  having  some 
useful  friends  and  good  prospects;  in  such  a  case 
he  might  have  held  his  head  high  in  a  gentlemanly 
and  Christian  community.  As  it  was  he  had  usually 
avoided  the  reproachful  glance  of  his  fellows,  feel- 
ing that  he  deserved  their  condemnation.  But  he 
had  cherished  for  a  long  time  his  romantic  senti- 
mentalities about  women:  literary  conventions  bor- 
rowed from  the  minor  poets  and  pseudo-mediaeval- 
ists,  or  so  he  thought  afterwards.  But,  fresh  from 
school,  wearied  a  little  with  the  perpetual  society 
of  barbarian  though  worthy  boys,  he  had  in  his 
soul  a  charming  image  of  womanhood,  before  which 
he  worshipped  with  mingled  passion  and  devotion. 
It  was  a  nude  figure,  perhaps,  but  the  shining  arms 
were  to  be  wound  about  the  neck  of  a  vanquished 
knight,  there  was  rest  for  the  head  of  a  wounded 
lover;  the  hands  were  stretched  forth  to  do  works 
of  pity,  and  the  smiling  lips  were  to  murmur  not 
love  alone,  but  consolation  in  defeat.  Here  was 
the  refuge  for  a  broken  heart;  here  the  scorn  of 
men  would  but  make  tenderness  increase;  here  was 
all  pity  and  all  charity  with  loving-kindness.  It  was 
a  delightful  picture,  conceived  in  the  'come  rest  on 
this  bosom,'  and  'a  ministering  angel  thou'  man- 
ner, with  touches  of  allurement  that  made  devotion 
all  the  sweeter.  He  soon  found  that  he  had  ideal- 
ised a  little;  in  the  affair  of  young  Bennett,  while  the 
men  were  contemptuous  the  women  were  virulent. 

8l 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

He  had  been  rather  fond  of  Agatha  Gervase,  and 
she,  so  other  ladies  said,  had  'set  her  cap'  at  him. 
Now,  when  he  rebelled,  and  lost  the  goodwill  of 
his  aunt,  dear  Miss  Spurry,  Agatha  insulted  him 
with  all  conceivable  rapidity.  'After  all,  Mr.  Ben- 
nett,' she  said,  'you  will  be  nothing  better  than  a 
beggar;  now  will  you?  You  mustn't  think  me  cruel, 
but  I  can't  help  speaking  the  truth.  Write  books!' 
Her  expression  filled  up  the  incomplete  sentence; 
she  waggled  with  indignant  emotion.  These  pas- 
sages came  to  Lucian's  ears,  and  indeed  the  Ger- 
vases  boasted  of  'how  well  poor  Agatha  had  be- 
haved.' 

'Never  mind,  Gathy,'  old  Gervase  had  observed. 
'If  the  impudent  young  puppy  comes  here  again 
we'll  see  what  Thomas  can  do  with  the  horse- 
whip.' 

'Poor  dear  child,'  Mrs.  Gervase  added  in  telling 
the  tale,  'and  she  was  so  fond  of  him  too.  But 
of  course  it  couldn't  go  on  after  his  shameful  be- 
haviour.' 

But  Lucian  was  troubled;  he  sought  vainly  for 
the  ideal  womanly,  the  tender  note  of  'come  rest 
on  this  bosom.'  Ministering  angels,  he  felt  con- 
vinced, do  not  rub  red  pepper  and  sulphuric  acid 
into  the  wounds  of  suffering  mortals. 

Then  there  was  the  case  of  Mr.  Vaughan,  a 
squire  in  the  neighbourhood,  at  whose  board  all 
the  aristocracy  of  Caermaen  had  feasted  for  years. 

82 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Mr.  Vaughan  had  a  first-rate  cook,  and  his  cellar 
was  rare,  and  he  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he 
shared  his  good  things  with  his  friends.  His 
mother  kept  his  house,  and  they  delighted  all  the 
girls  with  frequent  dances,  while  the  men  sighed 
over  the  amazing  champagne.  Investments  proved 
disastrous,  and  Mr.  Vaughan  had  to  sell  the  grey 
manor-house  by  the  river.  He  and  his  mother  took 
a  little  modern  stucco  villa  in  Caermaen,  wishing  to 
be  near  their  dear  friends.  But  the  men  were  'very 
sorry;  rough  on  you,  Vaughan.  Always  thought 
those  Patagonians  were  risky,  but  you  wouldn't  hear 
of  it.  Hope  we  shall  see  you  before  very  long; 
you  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  must  come  to  tea  some  day 
after  Christmas.' 

'Of  course  we  are  all  very  sorry  for  them,"  said 
Henrietta  Dixon.  'No,  we  haven't  called  on  Mrs. 
Vaughan  yet.  They  have  no  regular  servant,  you 
know;  only  a  woman  in  the  morning.  I  hear  old 
mother  Vaughan,  as  Edward  will  call  her,  does 
nearly  everything.  And  their  house  is  absurdly 
small;  it's  little  more  than  a  cottage.  One  really 
can't  call  it  a  gentleman's  house.' 

Then  Mr.  Vaughan,  his  heart  in  the  dust,  went 
to  the  Gervases  and  tried  to  borrow  five  pounds  of 
Mr.  Gervase.  He  had  to  be  ordered  out  of  the 
house,  and,  as  Edith  Gervase  said,  it  was  all  very 
painful;  'he  went  out  in  such  a  funny  way,'  she 
added,  'just  like  the  dog  when  he's  had  a  whipping. 

83 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Of  course  it's  sad,  even  if  it  is  all  his  own  fault,  as 
everybody  says,  but  he  looked  so  ridiculous  as  he 
was  going  down  the  steps  that  I  couldn't  help  laugh- 
ing.' Mr.  Vaughan  had  heard  the  ringing,  youth- 
ful laughter  as  he  crossed  the  lawn. 

Young  girls  like  Henrietta  Dixon  and  Edith 
Gervase  naturally  viewed  the  Vaughans'  comical 
position  with  all  the  high  spirits  of  their  age,  but 
the  elder  ladies  could  not  look  at  matters  in  this 
frivolous  light. 

'Hush,  dear,  hush,'  said  Mrs.  Gervase,  'it's  all  too 
shocking  to  be  a  laughing  matter.  Don't  you  agree 
with  me,  Mrs.  Dixon?  The  sinful  extravagance 
that  went  on  at  Pentre  always  frightened  me.  You 
remember  that  ball  they  gave  last  year?  Mr.  Ger- 
vase assured  me  that  the  champagne  must  have  cost 
at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  shillings  the  dozen.' 

'It's  dreadful,  isn't  it,'  said  Mrs.  Dixon,  'when 
one  thinks  of  how  many  poor  people  there  are  who 
would  be  thankful  for  a  crust  of  bread?' 

'Yes,  Mrs.  Dixon,'  Agatha  joined  in,  'and  you 
know  how  absurdly  the  Vaughans  spoilt  the  cot- 
tagers. Oh,  it  was  really  wicked;  one  would  think 
Mr.  Vaughan  wished  to  make  them  above  their 
station.  Edith  and  I  went  for  a  walk  one  day 
nearly  as  far  as  Pentre,  and  we  begged  a  glass  of 
water  of  old  Mrs.  Jones  who  lives  in  that  pretty 
cottage  near  the  brook.  She  began  praising  the 
Vaughans  in  the  most  fulsome  manner,  and  showed 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

us  some  flannel  things  they  had  given  her  at  Christ- 
mas. I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dixon,  the 
flannel  was  the  very  best  quality;  no  lady  could  wish 
for  better.  It  couldn't  have  cost  less  than  half-a- 
crown  a  yard.' 

'I  know,  my  dear,  I  know.  Mr.  Dixon  always 
said  it  couldn't  last.  How  often  I  have  heard  him 
say  that  the  Vaughans  were  pauperising  all  the  com- 
mon people  about  Pentre,  and  putting  every  one  else 
in  a  most  unpleasant  position.  Even  from  a 
worldly  point  of  view  it  was  very  poor  taste  on  their 
part.  So  different  from  the  true  charity  that  Paul 
speaks  of.' 

'I  only  wish  they  had  given  away  nothing  worse 
than  flannel,'  said  Miss  Colley,  a  young  lady  of 
very  strict  views.  'But  I  assure  you  there  was  a 
perfect  orgy,  I  can  call  it  nothing  else,  every  Christ- 
mas. Great  joints  of  prime  beef,  and  barrels  of 
strong  beer,  and  snuff  and  tobacco  distributed 
wholesale;  as  if  the  poor  wanted  to  be  encouraged 
in  their  disgusting  habits.  It  was  really  impossible 
to  go  through  the  village  for  weeks  after ;  the  whole 
place  was  poisoned  with  the  fumes  of  horrid  tobacco 
pipes.' 

'Well,  we  see  how  that  sort  of  thing  ends,'  said 
Mrs.  Dixon,  summing  up  judicially.  'We  had  in- 
tended to  call,  but  I  really  think  it  would  be  impos- 
sible after  what  Mrs.  Gervase  has  told  us.  The 
idea  of  Mr.  Vaughan  trying  to  sponge  on  poor 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Mr.  Gervase  in  that  shabby  way!  I  think  mean- 
ness of  that  kind  is  so  hateful.' 

It  was  the  practical  side  of  all  this  that  aston- 
ished Lucian.  He  saw  that  in  reality  there  was  no 
high-flown  quixotism  in  a  woman's  nature:  the 
smooth  arms,  made  he  had  thought  for  caressing, 
seemed  muscular;  the  hands  meant  for  the  doing  of 
works  of  pity  in  his  system,  appeared  dexterous  in 
the  giving  of  'stingers,'  as  Barnes  might  say,  and 
the  smiling  lips  could  sneer  with  great  ease.  Nor 
was  he  more  fortunate  in  his  personal  experiences. 
As  has  been  told,  Mrs.  Dixon  spoke  of  him  in 
connection  with  'judgments,'  and  the  younger 
ladies  did  not  exactly  cultivate  his  acquaintance. 
Theoretically  they  'adored'  books  and  thought 
poetry  'too  sweet,'  but  in  practice  they  preferred 
talking  about  mares  and  fox-terriers  and  their 
neighbours. 

They  were  nice  girls  enough,  very  like  other 
young  ladies  in  other  country  towns,  content  with 
the  teaching  of  their  parents,  reading  the  Bible 
every  morning  in  their  bedrooms,  and  sitting  every 
Sunday  in  church  amongst  the  well-dressed  'sheep' 
on  the  right  hand.  It  was  not  their  fault  if  they 
failed  to  satisfy  the  ideal  of  an  enthusiastic  dreamy 
boy,  and  indeed,  they  would  have  thought  his 
feigned  woman  immodest,  absurdly  sentimental,  a 
fright  ('never  wears  stays,  my  dear'),  and  horrid. 

At  first  he  was  a  good  deal  grieved  at  the  loss  of 

86 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

that  charming  tender  woman,  the  work  of  his  brain. 
When  the  Miss  Dixons  went  haughtily  by  with  a 
scornful  waggle,  when  the  Miss  Gervases  passed  in 
the  wagonette,  laughing  as  the  mud  splashed  him, 
the  poor  fellow  would  look  up  with  a  face  of  grief 
that  must  have  been  very  comic ;  'like  a  dying  duck,' 
as  Edith  Gervase  said.  Edith  was  really  very 
pretty,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  her,  even 
about  fox-terriers,  if  she  would  have  listened.  One 
afternoon  at  the  Dixons'  he  really  forced  himself 
upon  her,  and  with  all  the  obtuseness  of  an  en- 
thusiastic boy  tried  to  discuss  the  Lotus  Eaters  of 
Tennyson.  It  was  too  absurd.  Captain  Kempton 
was  making  signals  to  Edith  all  the  time,  and  Lieu- 
tenant Gatwick  had  gone  off  in  disgust,  and  he  had 
promised  to  bring  her  a  puppy  'by  Vick  out  of 
Wasp.'  At  last  the  poor  girl  could  bear  it  no 
longer : 

'Yes,  it's  very  sweet,'  she  said  at  last.  'When 
did  you  say  you  were  going  to  London,  Mr. 
Taylor?' 

It  was  about  the  time  that  his  disappointment 
became  known  to  everybody,  and  the  shot  told. 
He  gave  her  a  piteous  look  and  slunk  off,  'just  like 
the  dog  when  he's  had  a  whipping,'  to  use  Edith's 
own  expression.  Two  or  three  lessons  of  this  de- 
scription produced  their  due  effect;  and  when  he  saw 
a  male  Dixon  or  Gervase  approaching  him  he  bit 
his  lip  and  summoned  up  his  courage.  But  when 

87 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  descried  a  'ministering  angel'  he  made  haste  and 
hid  behind  a  hedge  or  took  to  the  woods.  In  course 
of  time  the  desire  to  escape  became  an  instinct,  to 
be  followed  as  a  matter  of  course;  in  the  same  way 
he  avoided  the  adders  on  the  mountain.  His  old 
ideals  were  almost  if  not  quite  forgotten;  he  knew 
that  the  female  of  the  bete  humalne,  like  the  adder, 
would  in  all  probability  sting,  and  he  therefore 
shrank  from  its  trail,  but  without  any  feeling  of 
special  resentment.  The  one  had  a  poisoned 
tongue  as  the  other  had  a  poisoned  fang,  and  it  was 
well  to  leave  them  both  alone.  Then  had  come 
that  sudden  fury  of  rage  against  all  humanity,  as 
he  went  out  of  Caermaen  carrying  the  book  that 
had  been  stolen  from  him  by  the  enterprising  Beit. 
He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  how  nearly  he  had 
approached  the  verge  of  madness,  when  his  eyes 
filled  with  blood  and  the  earth  seemed  to  burn  with 
fire.  He  remembered  how  he  had  looked  up  to 
the  horizon  and  the  sky  was  blotched  with  scarlet; 
and  the  earth  was  deep  red,  with  red  woods  and 
red  fields.  There  was  something  of  horror  in  the 
memory,  and  in  the  vision  of  that  wild  night  walk 
through  dim  country,  when  every  shadow  seemed  a 
symbol  of  some  terrible  impending  doom.  The 
murmur  of  the  brook,  the  wind  shrilling  through 
the  wood,  the  pale  light  flowing  from  the  mouldered 
trunks,  and  the  picture  of  his  own  figure  fleeing  and 
fleeting  through  the  shades;  all  these  seemed  un- 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

happy  things  that  told  a  story  in  fatal  hieroglyphics. 
And  then  the  life  and  laws  of  the  sunlight  had 
passed  away,  and  the  resurrection  and  kingdom  of 
the  dead  began.  Though  his  limbs  were  weary,  he 
had  felt  his  muscles  grow  strong  as  steel;  a  woman, 
one  of  the  hated  race,  was  beside  him  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  wild  beast  woke  within  him,  ravening 
for  blood  and  brutal  lust;  all  the  raging  desires  of 
the  dim  race  from  which  he  came  assailed  his  heart. 
The  ghosts  issued  out  from  the  weird  wood  and 
from  the  caves  in  the  hills,  besieging  him,  as  he  had 
imagined  the  spiritual  legion  besieging  Caermaen, 
beckoning  him  to  a  hideous  battle  and  a  victory  that 
he  had  never  imagined  in  his  wildest  dreams.  And 
then  out  of  the  darkness  the  kind  voice  spoke  again, 
and  the  kind  hand  was  stretched  out  to  draw  him  up 
from  the  pit.  It  was  sweet  to  think  of  that  which 
he  had  found  at  last;  the  boy's  picture  incarnate,  all 
the  passion  and  compassion  of  his  longing,  all  the 
pity  and  love  and  consolation.  She,  that  beautiful 
passionate  woman  offering  up  her  beauty  in  sacrifice 
to  him,  she  was  worthy  indeed  of  his  worship.  He 
remembered  how  his  tears  had  fallen  upon  her 
breast,  and  how  tenderly  she  had  soothed  him,  whis- 
pering those  wonderful  unknown  words  that  sang  to 
his  heart.  And  she  had  made  herself  defenceless 
before  him,  caressing  and  fondling  the  body  that  had 
been  so  despised.  He  exulted  in  the  happy  thought 
that  he  had  knelt  down  on  the  ground  before  her, 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  had  embraced  her  knees  and  worshipped.  The 
woman's  body  had  become  his  religion;  he  lay  awake 
at  night  looking  into  the  darkness  with  hungry  eyes, 
wishing  for  a  miracle,  that  the  appearance  of  the 
so-desired  form  might  be  shaped  before  him.  And 
when  he  was  alone  in  quiet  places  in  the  wood,  he 
fell  down  again  on  his  knees,  and  even  on  his  face, 
stretching  out  vain  hands  in  the  air,  as  if  they  would 
feel  her  flesh.  His  father  noticed  in  those  days 
that  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  was  stuffed  with 
papers;  he  would  see  Lucian  walking  up  and  down 
in  a  secret  shady  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  orchard, 
reading  from  his  sheaf  of  manuscript,  replacing  the 
leaves,  and  again  drawing  them  out.  He  would 
walk  a  few  quick  steps,  and  pause  as  if  enraptured, 
gazing  in  the  air  as  if  he  looked  through  the  sha- 
dows of  the  world  into  some  sphere  of  glory, 
feigned  by  his  thought.  Mr.  Taylor  was  almost 
alarmed  at  the  sight;  he  concluded  of  course  that 
Lucian  was  writing  a  book.  In  the  first  place,  there 
seemed  something  immodest  in  seeing  the  operation 
performed  under  one's  eyes;  it  was  as  if  the  'make- 
up' of  a  beautiful  actress  were  done  on  the  stage,  in 
full  audience ;  as  if  one  saw  the  rounded  calves  fixed 
in  position,  the  fleshings  drawn  on,  the  voluptuous 
outlines  of  the  figure  produced  by  means  purely 
mechanical,  blushes  mantling  from  the  paint-pot, 
and  the  golden  tresses  well  secured  by  the  wig- 
maker.  Books,  Mr.  Taylor  thought,  should  swim 

90 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

into  one's  ken  mysteriously;  they  should  appear  all 
printed  and  bound,  without  apparent  genesis;  just 
as  children  are  suddenly  told  that  they  have  a  little 
sister,  found  by  mamma  in  the  garden.  But  Lucian 
was  not  only  engaged  in  composition;  he  was  plainly 
rapturous,  enthusiastic;  Mr.  Taylor  saw  him  throw 
up  his  hands,  and  bow  his  head  with  strange  gesture. 
The  parson  began  to  fear  that  his  son  was  like  some 
of  those  mad  Frenchmen  of  whom  he  had  read, 
young  fellows  who  had  a  sort  of  fury  of 
literature,  and  gave  their  whole  lives  to  it,  spending 
days  over  a  page,  and  years  over  a  book,  pursuing 
art  as  Englishmen  pursue  money,  building  up  a  ro- 
mance as  if  it  were  a  business.  Now  Mr.  Taylor 
held  firmly  by  the  'walking-stick'  theory;  he  believed 
that  a  man  of  letters  should  have  a  real  profession, 
some  solid  employment  in  life.  'Get  something  to 
do,'  he  would  have  liked  to  say,  'and  then  you  can 
write  as  much  as  you  please.  Look  at  Scott,  look 
at  Dickens  and  Trollope.'  And  then  there  was  a 
social  point  of  view;  it  might  be  right,  or  it  might 
be  wrong,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  lit- 
erary man,  as  such,  was  not  thought  much  of  in  Eng- 
lish society.  Mr.  Taylor  knew  his  Thackeray,  and 
he  remembered  that  old  Major  Pendennis,  society 
personified,  did  not  exactly  boast  of  his  neph- 
ew's occupation.  Even  Warrington  was  rather 
ashamed  to  own  his  connection  with  journalism, 
and  Pendennis  himself  laughed  openly  at  his  novel- 

91 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

writing  as  an  agreeable  way  of  making  money,  a 
useful  appendage  to  the  cultivation  of  dukes,  his 
true  business  in  life.  This  was  the  plain  English 
view,  and  Mr.  Taylor  was  no  doubt  right  enough 
in  thinking  it  good,  practical  common  sense. 
Therefore  when  he  saw  Lucian  loitering  and  saun- 
tering, musing  amorously  over  his  manuscript, 
exhibiting  manifest  signs  of  that  fine  fury  which 
Britons  have  ever  found  absurd,  he  felt  grieved  at 
heart,  and  more  than  ever  sorry  that  he  had  not 
been  able  to  send  the  boy  to  Oxford. 

'B.N.C.  would  have  knocked  all  this  nonsense 
out  of  him,'  he  thought.  'He  would  have  taken  a 
double  First  like  my  poor  father  and  made  some- 
thing of  a  figure  in  the  world.  However,  it  can't 
be  helped.'  The  poor  man  sighed,  and  lit  his  pipe, 
and  walked  in  another  part  of  the  garden. 

But  he  was  mistaken  in  his  diagnosis  of  the  symp- 
toms. The  book  that  Lucian  had  begun  lay  un- 
heeded in  the  drawer;  it  was  a  secret  work  that  he 
was  engaged  on,  and  the  manuscripts  that  he  took 
out  of  that  inner  pocket  never  left  him  day  or  night. 
He  slept  with  them  next  to  his  heart,  and  he  would 
kiss  them  when  he  was  quite  alone,  a,nd  pay  them 
such  devotions  as  he  would  have  paid  to  her  whom 
they  symbolized.  He  wrote  on  these  leaves  a 
wonderful  ritual  of  praise  and  devotion;  it  was  the 
liturgy  of  his  religion.  Again  and  again  he  copied 
and  recopied  this  madness  of  a  lover;  dallying  all 

92 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

day  over  the  choice  of  a  word,  searching  for  more 
exquisite  phrases.  No  common  words,  no  such 
phrases  as  he  might  use  in  a  tale  would  suffice ;  the 
sentences  of  worship  must  stir  and  be  quickened, 
they  must  glow  and  burn,  and  be  decked  out  as  with 
rare  work  of  jewellery.  Every  part  of  that  holy 
and  beautiful  body  must  be  adored;  he  sought  for 
terms  of  extravagant  praise,  he  bent  his  soul  and 
mind  low  before  her,  licking  the  dust  under  her  feet, 
abased  and  yet  rejoicing  as  a  Templar  before  the 
image  of  Baphomet.  He  exulted  more  especially 
in  the  knowledge  that  there  was  nothing  of  the  con- 
ventional or  common  in  his  ecstasy;  he  was  not  the 
fervent,  adoring  lover  of  Tennyson's  poems,  who 
loved  with  passion  and  yet  with  a  proud  respect, 
with  the  love  always  of  a  gentleman  for  a  lady. 
Annie  was  not  a  lady;  the  Morgans  had  farmed 
their  lands  for  hundreds  of  years;  they  were  what 
Mrs.  Gervase  and  Miss  Colley  and  the  rest  of  them 
called  common  people.  Tennyson's  noble  gentle- 
men thought  of  their  ladies  with  something  of  ret- 
icence :  they  imagined  them  dressed  in  flowing  and 
courtly  robes,  walking  with  slow  dignity;  they 
dreamed  of  them  as  always  stately,  the  future  mis- 
tresses of  their  houses,  mothers  of  their  heirs. 
Such  lovers  bowed,  but  not  to  low,  remembering 
their  own  honour,  before  those  who  were  to  be 
equal  companions  and  friends  as  well  as  wives.  It 
was  not  such  conceptions  as  these  that  he  embodied 

93 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

in  the  amazing  emblems  of  his  ritual;  he  was  not, 
he  told  himself,  a  young  officer,  'something  in  the 
city,'  or  a  rising  barrister  engaged  to  a  Miss  Dixon 
or  a  Miss  Gervase.  He  had  not  thought  of  look- 
ing out  for  a  nice  little  house  in  a  good  residential 
suburb  where  they  would  have  pleasant  society, 
there  were  to  be  no  consultations  about  wall-papers, 
or  jocose  whispers  from  friends  as  to  the  necessity 
of  having  a  room  that  would  do  for  a  nursery.  No 
glad  young  thing  had  leant  on  his  arm  while  they 
chose  the  suite  in  white  enamel,  and  the  china  for 
'our  bed-room,'  the  modest  salesman  doing  his  best 
to  spare  their  blushes.  When  Edith  Gervase  mar- 
ried she  would  get  mamma  to  look  out  for  two 
really  good  servants,  'as  we  must  begin  quietly,'  and 
mamma  would  make  sure  that  the  drains  and  every- 
thing were  right.  Then  her  'girl  friends'  would 
come  on  a  certain  solemn  day  to  see  all  her  'lovely 
things.'  'Two  dozen  of  everything!'  'Look, 
Ethel,  did  you  ever  see  such  ducky  frills?'  'And 
that  insertion,  isn't  it  quite  too  sweet?'  'My  dear 
Edith  you  are  a  lucky  girl.'  'All  the  underlinen 
specially  made  by  Madame  Lulu !'  'What  delicious 
things !'  'I  hope  he  knows  what  a  prize  he  is  win- 
ning.' 'Oh !  do  look  at  those  lovely  ribbon-bows !' 
'You  darling,  how  happy  you  must  be.'  Real  Val- 
enciennes!' Then  a  whisper  in  the  lady's  ear,  and 
her  reply,  'Oh,  don't,  Nelly!'  So  they  would  chirp 
over  their  chemises,  as  in  Rabelais  they  chirped  over 

94 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

their  cups:  and  everything  would  be  done  in  due 
order  till  the  wedding-day,  when  mamma,  who  had 
strained  her  sinews  and  the  commandments  to  bring 
the  match  about,  would  weep  and  look  indignantly 
at  the  unhappy  bridegroom.  'I  hope  you'll  be  kind 
to  her,  Robert.'  Then  in  a  rapid  whisper  to  the 
bride:  'Mind  you  insist  on  Wyman's  flushing  the 
drains  when  you  come  back;  servants  are  so  careless 
and  dirty  too.  Don't  let  him  go  about  by  himself 
in  Paris.  Men  are  so  queer;  one  never  knows. 
You  have  got  the  pills?'  And  aloud,  after  these 
secreta,  'God  bless  you,  my  dear ;  good-bye !  cluck, 
clu'ck,  good-bye !' 

There  were  stranger  things  written  in  the  manu- 
script pages  that  Lucian  cherished,  sentences  that 
burnt  and  glowed  like  'coals  of  fire  which  hath  a 
most  vehement  flame.'  There  were  phrases  that 
stung  and  tingled  as  he  wrote  them,  and  sonorous 
words  poured  out  in  ecstasy  and  rapture,  as  in  some 
of  the  old  litanies.  He  hugged  the  thought  that  a 
great  part  of  what  he  had  invented  was  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word  occult:  page  after  page  might 
have  been  read  aloud  to  the  uninitiated  without  be- 
traying the  inner  meaning.  He  dreamed  night  and 
day  over  these  symbols,  he  copied  and  re-copied  the 
manuscript  nine  times  before  he  wrote  it  out  fairly 
in  a  little  book  which  he  made  himself  of  a  skin 
of  creamy  vellum.  In  his  mania  for  acquirements 
that  should  be  entirely  useless  he  had  gained  some 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

skill  in  illumination,  or  limning  as  he  preferred  to 
call  it,  always  choosing  the  obscurer  word  as  the  ob- 
scurer arts.  First  he  set  himself  to  the  severe  prac- 
tice of  the  text;  he  spent  many  hours  and  days  of 
toil  in  struggling  to  fashion  the  serried  columns 
of  black  letter,  writing  and  re-writing  till  he  could 
shape  the  massive  character  with  firm  true  hand. 
He  cut  his  quills  with  the  patience  of  a  monk  in  the 
scriptorium,  shaving  and  altering  the  nib,  lightening 
and  increasing  the  pressure  and  flexibility  of  the 
points,  till  the  pen  satisfied  him,  and  gave  a  stroke 
both  broad  and  even.  Then  he  made  experiments 
in  inks,  searching  for  some  medium  that  would  ri- 
val the  glossy  black  letter  of  the  old  manuscripts; 
and  not  till  he  could  produce  a  fair  page  of  text  did 
he  turn  to  the  more  entrancing  labours  of  the  capi- 
tals and  borders  and  ornaments.  He  mused  long 
over  the  Lombardic  letters,  as  glorious  in  their  way 
as  a  cathedral,  and  trained  his  hand  to  execute  the 
bold  and  flowing  lines;  and  then  there  was  the  art 
of  the  border,  blossoming  in  fretted  splendour  all 
about  the  page.  His  cousin,  Miss  Deacon,  called 
it  all  a  great  waste  of  time,  and  his  father  thought 
he  would  have  done  much  better  in  trying  to  im- 
prove his  ordinary  handwriting,  which  was  both 
ugly  and  illegible.  Indeed,  there  seemed  but  a 
poor  demand  for  the  limner's  art.  He  sent  some 
specimens  of  his  skill  to  an  'artistic  firm'  in  London; 
a  verse  of  the  'Maud,'  curiously  emblazoned,  and  a 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Latin  hymn  with  the  notes  pricked  on  a  red  stave. 
The  firm  wrote  civilly,  telling  him  that  his  work, 
though  good,  was  not  what  they  wanted,  and  en- 
closing an  illuminated  text.  'We  have  a  great  de- 
mand for  this  sort  of  thing,'  they  concluded,  'and 
if  you  care  to  attempt  something  in  this  style  we 
should  be  pleased  to  look  at  it.'  The  said  text  was 
'Thou,  God,  seest  me.'  The  letter  was  of  a  de- 
graded form,  bearing  much  the  same  relation  to 
the  true  character  as  a  'churchwarden  gothic'  build- 
ing does  to  Canterbury  Cathedral;  the  colours  were 
varied.  The  initial  was  pale  gold,  the  h  pink,  the 
o  black,  the  u  blue,  and  the  first  letter  was  somehow 
connected  with  a  bird's  nest  containing  the  young 
of  the  pigeon,  who  were  waited  on  by  the  female 
bird. 

'What  a  pretty  text,'  said  Miss  Deacon.  'I 
should  like  to  nail  it  up  in  my  room.  Why  don't 
you  try  to  do  something  like  that,  Lucian?  You 
might  make  something  by  it.' 

'I  sent  them  these,'  said  Lucian,  'but  they  don't 
like  them  much.' 

'My  dear  boy!  I  should  think  not!  Like 
them!  What  were  you  thinking  of  to  draw  those 
queer  stiff  flowers  all  round  the  border?  Roses? 
They  don't  look  like  roses  at  all  events.  Where 
do  you  get  such  ideas  from?' 

'But  the  design  is  appropriate;  look  at  the 
words.' 

97 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'My  dear  Lucian,  I  can't  read  the  words;  it's 
such  a  queer  old-fashioned  writing.  Look  how 
plain  that  text  is;  one  can  see  what  it's  about. 
And  this  other  one;  I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.' 

'It's  a  Latin  hymn.' 

'A  Latin  hymn?  Is  it  a  Protestant  hymn?  I 
may  be  old-fashioned,  but  Hymns  Ancient  and 
Modern  is  quite  good  enough  for  me.  This  is  the 
music  I  suppose?  But,  my  dear  boy,  there  are  only 
four  lines ;  and  who  ever  heard  of  notes  shaped  like 
that:  you  have  made  some  square  and  some  dia- 
mond-shaped? Why  didn't  you  look  in  your  poor 
mother's  old  music?  It's  in  the  ottoman  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  could  have  shown  you  how  to 
make  the  notes;  there  are  crotchets,  you  know,  and 
quavers.' 

Miss  Deacon  laid  down  the  illuminated  Urbs 
Beata  in  despair;  she  felt  convinced  that  her  cousin 
was  'next  door  to  an  idiot.' 

And  he  went  out  into  the  garden  and  raged  be- 
hind a  hedge.  He  broke  two  flower-pots  and  hit 
an  apple  tree  very  hard  with  his  stick,  and  then, 
feeling  more- calm,  wondered  what  was  the  use  of 
trying  to  do  anything.  He  would  not  have  put  the 
thought  into  words,  but  in  his  heart  he  was  ag- 
grieved that  his  cousin  liked  the  pigeons  and  the 
text,  and  did  not  like  his  emblematical  roses  and 
the  Latin  hymns.  He  knew  he  had  taken  great 
pains  over  the  work,  and  that  it  was  well  done,  and 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

being  still  a  young  man  he  expected  praise.  He 
found  that  in  this  hard  world  there  was  a  lack  of 
appreciation;  a  critical  spirit  seemed  abroad.  If 
he  could  have  been  scientifically  observed  as  he 
writhed  and  smarted  under  the  strictures  of  'the 
old  fool,'  as  he  rudely  called  his  cousin,  the  spec- 
tacle would  have  been  extremely  diverting.  Little 
boys  sometimes  enjoy  a  very  similar  entertainment; 
either  with  their  tiny  fingers  or  with  mamma's  nail- 
scissors  they  gradually  deprive  a  fly  of  its  wings  and 
legs.  The  odd  gyrations  and  queer  thin  buzzings 
of  the  creature  as  it  spins  comically  round  and  round 
never  fail  to  provide  a  fund  of  harmless  amuse- 
ment. Lucian,  indeed,  fancied  himself  a  very  ill- 
used  individual;  but  he  should  have  tried  to  imitate 
the  nervous  organisation  of  the  flies,  which,  as 
mamma  says,  'can't  really  feel.' 

But  now,  as  he  prepared  the  vellum  leaves  he 
remembered  his  art  with  joy;  he  had  not  laboured 
to  do  beautiful  work  in  vain.  He  read  over  his 
manuscript  once  more,  and  thought  of  the  design- 
ing of  the  pages.  He  made  sketches  on  furtive 
sheets  of  paper,  and  hunted  up  books  in  his  father's 
library  for  suggestions.  There  were  books  about 
architecture,  and  mediaeval  iron  work,  and  brasses 
which  contributed  hints  for  ornament;  and  not  con- 
tent with  mere  pictures  he  sought  in  the  woods  and 
hedges,  scanning  the  strange  forms  of  trees,  and 
the  poisonous  growth  of  great  water-plants,  and 

99 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  parasite  twining  of  honeysuckle  and  briony. 
In  one  of  these  rambles  he  discovered  a  red  earth 
which  he  made  into  a  pigment,  and  he  found  in  the 
unctuous  juice  of  a  certain  fern  an  ingredient  which 
he  thought  made  his  black  ink  still  more  glossy. 
His  book  was  written  all  in  symbols,  and  in  the 
same  spirit  of  symbolism  he  decorated  it,  causing 
wonderful  foliage  to  creep  about  the  text,  and 
showing  the  blossom  of  certain  mystical  flowers, 
with  emblems  of  strange  creatures,  caught  and 
bound  in  rose  thickets.  All  was  dedicated  to  love 
and  a  lover's  madness,  and  there  were  songs  in  it 
which  haunted  him  with  their  lilt  and  refrain. 
When  the  book  was  finished  it  replaced  the  loose 
leaves  as  his  constant  companion  by  day  and  night. 
Three  times  a  day  he  repeated  his  ritual  to  him- 
self, seeking  out  the  loneliest  places  in  the  woods, 
or  going  up  to  his  room;  and  from  the  fixed  intent- 
ness  and  rapture  of  his  gaze,  the  father  thought 
him  still  severely  employed  in  the  questionable  proc- 
ess of  composition.  At  night  he  contrived  to  wake 
for  his  strange  worship;  and  he  had  a  peculiar  cere- 
mony when  he  got  up  in  the  dark  and  lit  his  candle. 
From  a  steep  and  wild  hillside  not  far  from  the 
house,  he  had  cut  from  time  to  time  five  large 
boughs  of  spiked  and  prickly  gorse.  He  had 
brought  them  into  the  house,  one  by  one,  and  had 
hidden  them  in  the  big  box  that  stood  beside  his  bed. 
Often  he  woke  up  weeping  and  murmuring  to  him- 

IOO 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

self  the  words  of  one  of  his  songs,  and  then  when 
he  had  lit  the  candle,  he  would  draw  out  the  gorse- 
boughs,  and  place  them  on  the  floor,  and  taking  off 
his  night  gown,  gently  lay  himself  down  on  the  bed 
of  thorns  and  spines.  Lying  on  his  face,  with  the 
candle  and  the  book  before  him,  he  would  softly 
and  tenderly  repeat  the  praises  of  his  dear,  dear 
Annie,  and  as  he  turned  over  page  after  page,  and 
saw  the  raised  gold  of  the  majuscules  glow  and 
flame  in  the  candle-light,  he  pressed  the  thorns  into 
his  flesh.  At  such  moments  he  tasted  in  all  its 
acute  savour  the  joy  of  physical  pain;  and  after  two 
or  three  experiences  of  such  delights  he  altered  his 
book,  making  a  curious  sign  in  vermilion  on  the 
margin  of  the  passages  where  he  was  to  inflict  on 
himself  this  sweet  torture.  Never  did  he  fail  to 
wake  at  the  appointed  hour,  a  strong  effort  of  will 
broke  through  all  the  heaviness  of  sleep,  and  he 
would  rise  up,  joyful  though  weeping,  and  rev- 
erently set  his  thorny  bed  upon  the  floor,  offering 
his  pain  with  his  praise.  When  he  had  whispered 
the  last  word,  and  had  risen  from  the  ground,  his 
body  would  be  all  freckled  with  drops  of  blood;  he 
used  to  view  the  marks  with  pride.  Here  and  there 
a  spine  would  be  left  deep  in  the  flesh,  and  he  would 
pull  these  out  roughly,  tearing  through  the  skin. 
On  some  nights  when  he  had  pressed  with  more 
fervour  on  the  thorns  his  thighs  would  stream  with 
blood,  red  beads  standing  out  on  the  flesh,  and 

IOI 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

trickling  down  to  his  feet.  He  had  some  difficulty 
in  washing  away  the  bloodstains  so  as  not  to  leave 
any  traces  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  servant; 
and  after  a  time  he  returned  no  more  to  his  bed 
when  his  duty  had  been  accomplished.  For  a 
coverlet  he  had  a  dark  rug,  a  good  deal  worn,  and 
in  this  he  would  wrap  his  naked  bleeding  body,  and 
lie  down  on  the  hard  floor,  well  content  to  add  an 
aching  rest  to  the  account  of  his  pleasures.  He 
was  covered  with  scars,  and  those  that  healed  dur- 
ing the  day  were  torn  open  afresh  at  night;  the  pale 
olive  skin  was  red  with  the  angry  marks  of  blood, 
and  the  graceful  form  of  the  young  man  appeared 
like  the  body  of  a  tortured  martyr.  He  grew 
thinner  and  thinner  every  day,  for  he  ate  but  little ; 
the  skin  was  stretched  on  the  bones  of  his  face,  and 
the  black  eyes  burnt  in  dark  purple  hollows.  His 
relations  noticed  that  he  was  not  looking  well. 

'Now,  Lucian,  it's  perfect  madness  of  you  to  go 
on  like  this,'  said  Miss  Deacon,  one  morning  at 
breakfast.  'Look  how  your  hand  shakes;  some 
people  would  say  that  you  had  been  taking  brandy. 
And  all  that  you  want  is  a  little  medicine,  and  yet 
you  won't  be  advised.  You  know  it's  not  my  fault; 
I  have  asked  you  to  try  Dr.  Jelly's  Cooling  Powders 
again  and  again.' 

He  remembered  the  forcible  exhibition  of  the 
powders  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  felt  thankful  that 
those  days  were  over.  He  only  grinned  at  his 

102 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

cousin  and  swallowed  a  great  cup  of  strong  tea  to 
steady  his  nerves  which  were  shaky  enough.  Mrs. 
Dixon  saw  him  one  day  in  Caermaen;  it  was  very 
hot,  and  he  had  been  walking  rather  fast.  The 
scars  on  his  body  burnt  and  tingled  and  he  tottered 
as  he  raised  his  hat  to  the  vicar's  wife.  She  de- 
cided without  further  investigation  that  he  must 
have  been  drinking  in  public-houses. 

'It  seems  a  mercy  that  poor  Mrs.  Taylor  was 
taken,'  she  said  to  her  husband.  'She  has  certainly 
been  spared  a  great  deal.  That  wretched  young 
man  passed  me  this  afternoon;  he  was  quite  intoxi- 
cated.' 

'How  very  sad,'  said  Mr.  Dixon.  'A  little  port, 
my  dear?' 

'Thank  you,  Merivale,  I  will  have  another  glass 
of  sherry.  Dr.  Burrows  is  always  scolding  me  and 
saying  that  I  must  take  something  to  keep  up  my 
energy,  and  this  sherry  is  so  weak.' 

The  Dixons  were  not  teetotallers.  They  re- 
gretted it  deeply,  and  blamed  the  doctor,  who  'in- 
sisted on  some  stimulant.'  However,  there  was 
some  consolation  in  trying  to  convert  the  parish  to 
total  abstinence,  or,  as  they  curiously  called  it, 
temperance.  Old  women  were  warned  of  the  sin 
of  taking  a  glass  of  beer  for  supper;  aged  labourers 
were  urged  to  try  Cork-ho,  the  new  temperance 
drink;  an  uncouth  beverage,  styled  coffee,  was  dis- 
pensed at  the  reading-room.  Mr.  Dixon  preached 

103 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

an  eloquent  'temperance'  sermon,  soon  after  the 
above  conversation,  taking  as  his  text:  Beware  of 
the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees.  In  his  discourse  he 
showed  that  fermented  liquor  and  leaven  had  much 
in  common,  that  beer  was  at  the  present  day  'put 
away'  during  Passover  by  the  strict  Jews ;  and  in  a 
moving  peroration  he  urged  his  dear  brethen,  'and 
more  especially  those  amongst  us  who  are  poor  in 
this  world's  goods,'  to  beware  indeed  of  that  evil 
leaven  which  was  sapping  the  manhood  of  our 
nation.  Mrs.  Dixon  cried  after  church: 

'Oh,  Merivale,  what  a  beautiful  sermon !  How 
earnest  you  were.  I  hope  it  will  do  good.' 

Mr.  Dixon  swallowed  his  port  with  great  deco- 
rum, but  his  wife  fuddled  herself  every  evening 
with  cheap  sherry.  She  was  quite  unaware  of  the 
fact,  and  sometimes  wondered  in  a  dim  way  why 
she  always  had  to  scold  the  children  after  dinner. 
And  so  strange  things  sometimes  happened  in  the 
nursery,  and  now  and  then  the  children  looked 
queerly  at  one  another  after  a  red-faced  woman  had 
gone  out,  panting. 

Lucian  knew  nothing  of  his  accuser's  trials,  but 
he  was  not  long  in  hearing  of  his  own  intoxication. 
The  next  time  he  went  down  to  Caermaen  he  was 
hailed  by  the  doctor. 

'Been  drinking  again  to-day?' 

'No,'  said  Lucian  in  a  puzzled  voice.  'What  do 
you  mean?' 

104 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'Oh,  well,  if  you  haven't,  that's  all  right,  as 
you'll  be  able  to  take  a  drop  with  me.  Come  along 
in?' 

Over  the  whisky  and  pipes  Lucian  heard  of  the 
evil  rumours  affecting  his  character. 

'Mrs.  Dixon  assured  me  you  were  staggering 
from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other.  You  quite 
frightened  her,  she  said.  Then  she  asked  me  if  I 
recommended  her  to  take  one  or  two  ounces  of 
spirit  at  bedtime  for  the  palpitation;  and  of  course 
I  told  her  two  would  be  better.  I  have  my  living 
to  make  here,  you  know.  And  upon  my  word,  I 
think  she  wants  it;  she's  always  gurgling  inside  like 
a  waterworks.  I  wonder  how  old  Dixon  can  stand 
it.' 

'I  like  "ounces  of  spirit,"  '  said  Lucian.  'That's 
taking  it  medicinally,  I  suppose.  I've  often  heard 
of  ladies  who  have  to  "take  it  medicinally";  and 
that's  how  it's  done?' 

'That's  it.  "Dr.  Burrows  won't  listen  to  me": 
"I  tell  him  how  I  dislike  the  taste  of  spirits,  but  he 
says  they  are  absolutely  necessary  for  my  constitu- 
tion" :  "my  medical  man  insists  on  something  at  bed- 
time"; that's  the  style.' 

Lucian  laughed  gently;  all  these  people  had  be- 
come indifferent  to  him;  he  could  no  longer  feel 
savage  indignation  at  their  little  hypocrisies  and 
malignancies.  Their  voices  uttering  calumny,  and 
morality,  and  futility  had  become  like  the  thin  shrill 

105 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

angry  note  of  a  gnat  on  a  summer  evening;  he  had 
his  own  thoughts  and  his  own  life,  and  he  passed 
on  without  heeding. 

'You  come  down  to  Caermaen  pretty  often  don't 
you?'  said  the  doctor.  'I've  seen  you  two  or  three 
times  in  the  last  fortnight.' 

'Yes,  I  enjoy  the  walk.' 

'Well,  look  me  up  whenever  you  like,  you  know. 
I  am  often  in  just  at  this  time,  and  a  chat  with  a 
human  being  isn't  bad,  now  and  then.  It's  a  change 
for  me :  I'm  often  afraid  I  shall  lose  my  patients.' 

The  doctor  had  the  weakness  of  these  terrible 
puns,  dragged  headlong  into  the  conversation.  He 
sometimes  exhibited  them  before  Mrs.  Gervase, 
who  would  smile  in  a  faint  and  dignified  manner, 
and  say: 

'Ah,  I  see.  Very  amusing  indeed.  We  had  an 
old  coachman  who  was  very  clever,  I  believe,  at 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  Mr.  Gervase  was  obliged  to 
send  him  away,  the  laughter  of  the  other  domestics 
was  so  very  boisterous.' 

Lucian  laughed,  not  boisterously,  but  good- 
humouredly,  at  the  doctor's  joke.  He  liked  Bur- 
rows, feeling  that  he  was  a  man  and  not  an  auto- 
matic gabbling  machine. 

'You  look  a  little  pulled  down,'  said  the  doctor, 
when  Lucian  rose  to  go.  'No,  you  don't  want  any 
medicine.  Plenty  of  beef  and  beer  will  do  you 
more  good  than  drugs.  I  daresay  it's  the  hot 

1 06 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

weather  that  has  thinned  you  a  bit.  Oh,  you'll  be 
all  right  again  in  a  month.' 

As  Lucian  strolled  out  of  the  town  on  his  way 
home,  he  passed  a  small  crowd  of  urchins  assem- 
bled at  the  corner  of  an  orchard.  They  were  en- 
joying themselves  immensely.  The  'healthy'  boy, 
the  same  whom  he  had  seen  some  weeks  ago  operat- 
ing on  a  cat,  seemed  to  have  recognised  his  selfish- 
ness in  keeping  his  amusements  to  himself.  He 
had  found  a  poor  lost  puppy,  a  little  creature  with 
bright  pitiful  eyes,  almost  human  in  their  fond 
friendly  gaze.  It  was  not  a  well-bred  little  dog; 
it  was  certainly  not  that  famous  puppy  'by  Vick  out 
of  Wasp' ;  it  had  rough  hair  and  a  foolish  long  tail 
which  it  wagged  beseechingly,  at  once  deprecating 
severity  and  asking  kindness.  The  poor  animal 
had  evidently  been  used  to  gentle  treatment:  it 
would  look  up  in  a  boy's  face,  and  give  a  leap,  fawn- 
ing on  him,  and  then  bark  in  a  small  doubtful  voice, 
and  cower  a  moment  on  the  ground,  astonished  per- 
haps at  the  strangeness,  the  bustle  and  animation. 
The  boys  were  beside  themselves  with  eagerness; 
there  was  quite  a  babble  of  voices,  arguing,  discuss- 
ing, suggesting.  Each  one  had  a  plan  of  his  own 
which  he  brought  before  the  leader,  a  stout  and 
sturdy  youth. 

'Drown  him!  What  be  you  thinkin'  of,  mun?' 
he  was  saying.  'Tain't  no  sport  at  all.  You  shut 
your  mouth,  gwaes.  Be  you  goin'  to  ask  your 

107 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

mother  for  the  boiling  water?  Iss,  Bob  Williams, 
I  do  know  all  that:  but  where  be  you  a-going  to  get 
the  fire  from?  Be  quiet,  mun,  can't  you?  Thomas 
Trevor,  be  this  dog  yourn  or  mine?  Now,  look 
you,  if  you  don't  all  of  you  shut  your  bloody  mouths, 
I'll  take  the  dog  'ome  and  keep  him.  There  now!' 

He  was  a  born  leader  of  men.  A  singular  de- 
pression and  lowness  of  spirit  showed  itself  on  the 
boys'  faces.  They  recognised  that  the  threat  might 
very  possibly  be  executed,  and  their  countenances 
were  at  once  composed  to  humble  attention.  The 
puppy  was  still  cowering  on  the  ground  in  the  midst 
of  them:  one  or  two  tried  to  relieve  the  tension  of 
their  feelings  by  kicking  him  in  the  belly  with  their 
hobnail  boots.  It  cried  out  with  the  pain  and 
writhed  a  little,  but  the  poor  little  beast  did  not 
attempt  to  bite  or  even  snarl.  It  looked  up  with 
those  beseeching  friendly  eyes  at  its  persecutors, 
and  fawned  on  them  again,  and  tried  to  wag  its 
tail  and  be  merry,  pretending  to  play  with  a  straw 
on  the  road,  hoping  perhaps  to  win  a  little  favour 
in  that  way. 

The  leader  saw  the  moment  for  his  master-stroke. 
He  slowly  drew  a  piece  of  rope  from  his  pocket. 

'What  do  you  say  to  that,  mun?  Now,  Thomas 
Trevor!  We'll  hang  him  over  that  there  bough. 
Will  that  suit  you,  Bobby  Williams?' 

There  was  a  great  shriek  of  approval  and  delight. 
All  was  again  bustle  and  animation.  Til  tie  it 

108 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

round  his  neck?'  'Get  out,  mun,  you  don't  know 
how  it  be  done.'  'Iss,  I  do,  Charlie.'  'Now,  let 
me,  gwaes,  now  do  let  me.'  'You  be  sure  he  won't 
bite?'  'He  bain't  mad,  be  he?'  'Suppose  we  were 
to  tie  up  his  mouth  first?' 

The  puppy  still  fawned  and  curried  favour,  and 
wagged  that  sorry  tail,  and  lay  down  crouching  on 
one  side  on  the  ground,  sad  and  sorry  in  his  heart, 
but  still  with  a  little  gleam  of  hope,  for  now  and 
again  he  tried  to  play,  and  put  up  his  face,  praying 
with  those  fond  friendly  eyes.  And  then  at  last 
his  gambols  and  poor  efforts  for  mercy  ceased,  and 
he  lifted  up  his  wretched  voice  in  one  long  dismal 
whine  of  despair.  But  he  licked  the  hand  of  the 
boy  that  tied  the  noose. 

He  was  slowly  and  gently  swung  into  the  air  as 
Lucian  went  by  unheeded;  he  struggled,  and  his 
legs  twisted  and  writhed.  The  'healthy'  boy  pulled 
the  rope,  and  his  friends  danced  and  shouted  with 
glee.  As  Lucian  turned  the  corner,  the  poor  dan- 
gling body  was  swinging  to  and  fro ;  the  puppy  was 
dying,  but  he  still  kicked  a  little. 

Lucian  went  on  his  way  hastily,  and  shuddering 
with  disgust.  The  young  of  the  human  creature 
were  really  too  horrible;  they  defiled  the  earth,  and 
made  existence  unpleasant,  as  the  pulpy  growth  of 
a  noxious  and  obscene  fungus  spoils  an  agreeable 
walk.  The  sight  of  those  malignant  little  animals 
with  mouths  that  uttered  cruelty  and  filth,  with 

109 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

hands  dexterous  in  torture,  and  feet  swift  to  run 
all  evil  errands,  had  given  him  a  shock  and  broken 
up  the  world  of  strange  thoughts  in  which  he  had 
been  dwelling.  Yet  it  was  no  good  being  angry 
with  them:  it  was  their  nature  to  be  very  loathsome. 
Only  he  wished  they  would  go  about  their  hideous 
amusements  in  their  own  back  gardens  where  no- 
body could  see  them  at  work;  it  was  too  bad  that  he 
should  be  interrupted  and  offended  in  a  quiet 
country  road.  He  tried  to  put  the  incident  out  of 
his  mind,  as  if  the  whole  thing  had  been  a  disagree- 
able story,  and  the  visions  amongst  which  he  wished 
to  move  were  beginning  to  return,  when  he  was 
again  rudely  disturbed.  A  little  girl,  a  pretty  child 
of  eight  or  nine,  was  coming  along  the  lane  to  meet 
him.  She  was  crying  bitterly  and  looking  to  left 
and  right,  and  calling  out  some  word  all  the  time. 

'Jack,  Jack,  Jack!     Little  Jackie  1     Jack!' 

Then  she  burst  into  tears  afresh,  and  peered  in- 
to the  hedge,  and  tried  to  peep  through  a  gate  into 
a  field. 

'Jackie,  Jackie,  Jackie!' 

She  came  up  to  Lucian,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  and  dropped  him  an  old-fashioned 
curtsy. 

'Oh,  please  sir,  have  you  seen  my  little  Jackie?' 

'What  do  you  mean?'  said  Lucian.  'What  is  it 
you've  lost?' 

'A  little  dog,  please  sir.  A  little  tarrier  dog  with 
no 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

white  hair.  Father  gave  me  him  a  month  ago,  and 
said  I  might  keep  him.  Someone  did  leave  the 
garden  gate  open  this  afternoon,  and  he  must  'a 
got  away,  sir,  and  I  was  so  fond  of  him  sir,  he  was 
so  playful  and  loving,  and  I  be  afraid  he  be  lost.' 

She  began  to  call  again,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer. 

'Jack,  Jack,  Jack!' 

'I'm  afraid  some  boys  have  got  your  little  dog,' 
said  Lucian.  'They've  killed  him.  You'd  better 
go  back  home.' 

He  went  on,  walking  as  fast  as  he  could,  in  his 
endeavour  to  get  beyond  the  noise  of  the  child's 
crying.  It  distressed  him,  and  he  wished  to  think 
of  other  things.  He  stamped  his  foot  angrily  on 
the  ground  as  he  recalled  the  annoyances  of  the 
afternoon,  and  longed  for  some  hermitage  on  the 
mountains,  far  above  the  stench  and  the  sound  of 
humanity. 

A  little  farther,  and  he  came  to  Croeswen,  where 
the  road  branched  off  to  right  and  left.  There  was 
a  triangular  plot  of  grass  between  the  two  roads; 
there  the  cross  had  once  stood,  'the  goodly  and 
famous  roode'  of  the  old  local  chronicle.  The  words 
echoed  in  Lucian's  ears  as  he  went  by  on  the  right 
hand.  'There  were  five  steps  that  did  go  up  to  the 
first  pace,  and  seven  steps  to  the  second  pace,  all  of 
clene  hewn  ashler.  And  all  above  it  was  most 
curiously  and  gloriously  wrought  with  thorowgh 

III 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

carved  work:  in  the  highest  place  was  the  Holy 
Roode  with  Christ  upon  the  Cross  having  Marie  on 
the  one  syde  and  John  on  the  other.  And  below 
were  six  splendent  and  glisteringe  archaungels  that 
bore  up  the  roode,  and  beneath  them  in  their  stories 
were  the  most  fair  and  noble  ymages  of  the  xij 
Apostles  and  of  divers  other  Saints  and  Martirs. 
And  in  the  lowest  storie  there  was  a  marvellous 
ymagerie  of  divers  Beasts,  such  as  oxen  and  horses 
and  swine,  and  little  dogs  and  peacocks,  all  done  in 
the  finest  and  most  curious  wise,  so  that  they  all 
seemed  as  if  they  were  caught  in  a  Wood  of  Thorns, 
the  which  is  their  torment  of  this  life.  And  here 
once  in  the  year  was  a  marvellous  solemn  service, 
when  the  parson  of  Caermaen  came  out  with  the 
singers  and  all  the  people,  singing  the  psalm  Bene- 
dicite  omma  opera  as  they  passed  along  the  road  in 
their  procession.  And  when  they  stood  at  the 
roode  the  priest  did  there  his  service,  making  cer- 
tain prayers  for  the  beasts,  and  then  he  went  up  to 
the  first  pace  and  preached  a  sermon  to  the  people, 
shewing  them  that  as  our  Lord  Jhu  dyed  upon  the 
Tree  of  his  deare  mercy  for  us,  so  we  too  owe 
mercy  to  the  beasts  his  Creatures,  for  that  they  are 
all  his  poor  lieges  and  silly  servants.  And  that  like 
as  the  Holy  Aungells  do  their  suit  to  him  on  high, 
and  the  Blessed  xij  Apostles  and  the  Martirs,  and 
all  the  Blissful  Saints  served  him  aforetime  on  earth 
and  now  praise  him  in  heaven,  so  also  do  the  beasts 

112 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

serve  him,  though  they  be  in  torment  of  life  and 
below  men.  For  their  spirit  goeth  downward,  as 
Holy  Writ  teacheth  us.' 

It  was  a  quaint  old  record,  a  curious  relic  of  what 
the  modern  inhabitants  of  Caermaen  called  the 
Dark  Ages.  A  few  of  the  stones  that  had  formed 
the  base  of  the  cross  still  remained  in  position,  grey 
with  age,  blotched  with  black  lichen  and  green  moss. 
The  remainder  of  the  famous  rood  had  been  used 
to  mend  the  roads,  to  build  pigsties  and  domestic 
offices;  it  had  turned  Protestant,  in  fact.  Indeed, 
if  it  had  remained,  the  parson  of  Caermaen  would 
have  had  no  time  for  the  service;  the  coffee-stall, 
the  Portuguese  Missions,  the  Society  for  the  Con- 
version of  the  Jews,  and  important  social  duties 
took  up  all  his  leisure.  Besides,  he  thought  the 
whole  ceremony  unscriptural. 

Lucian  passed  on  his  way  wondering  at  the 
strange  contrasts  of  the  Middle  Ages.  How  was 
it  that  people  who  could  devise  so  beautiful  a  service 
believed  in  witchcraft,  demoniacal  possession  and 
obsession,  in  the  incubus  and  the  succubus,  and  in 
the  Sabbath  and  in  many  other  horrible  absurdities? 
It  seemed  astonishing  that  anybody  could  even  pre- 
tend to  credit  such  monstrous  tales,  but  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  the  dread  of  old  women  who  rode 
on  broomsticks  and  liked  black  cats  was  once  a  very 
genuine  terror. 

A  cold  wind  blew  up  from  the  river  at  sunset, 

"3 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  the  scars  on  his  body  began  to  burn  and  tingle. 
The  pain  recalled  his  ritual  to  him,  and  he  began 
to  recite  it  as  he  walked  along.  He  had  cut  a 
branch  of  thorn  from  the  hedge  and  placed  it  next 
to  his  skin,  pressing  the  spikes  into  the  flesh  with 
his  hand  till  the  warm  blood  ran  down.  He  felt 
it  was  an  exquisite  and  sweet  observance  for  her 
sake ;  and  then  he  thought  of  the  secret  golden  palace 
he  was  building  for  her,  the  rare  and  wonderful  city 
rising  in  his  imagination.  As  the  solemn  night  be- 
gan to  close  about  the  earth,  and  the  last  glimmer 
of  the  sun  faded  from  the  hills,  he  gave  himself 
anew  to  the  woman,  his  body  and  his  mind,  all  that 
he  was,  and  all  that  he  had. 


114 


IV 

IN  the  course  of  the  week  Lucian  again  visited 
Caermaen.  He  wished  to  view  the  amphi- 
theatre more  precisely,  to  note  the  exact  posi- 
tion of  the  ancient  walls,  to  gaze  up  the  valley  from 
certain  points  within  the  town,  to  imprint  minutely 
and  clearly  on  his  mind  the  surge  of  the  hills  about 
the  city,  and  the  dark  tapestry  of  the  hanging 
woods.  And  he  lingered  in  the  museum  where  the 
relics  of  the  Roman  occupation  had  been  stored; 
he  was  interested  in  the  fragments  of  tessellated 
floors,  in  the  glowing  gold  of  drinking  cups,  the 
curious  beads  of  fused  and  coloured  glass,  the 
carved  amber-work,  the  scent-flagons  that  still  re- 
tained the  memory  of  unctuous  odours,  the  neck- 
laces, brooches,  hairpins  of  gold  and  silver,  and 
other  intimate  objects  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Roman  ladies.  One  of  the  glass  flagons,  buried  in 
damp  earth  for  many  hundred  years,  had  gathered 
in  its  dark  grave  all  the  splendours  of  the  light,  and 
now  shone  like  an  opal  with  a  moonlight  glamour 
and  gleams  of  gold  and  pale  sunset  green,  and  im- 
perial purple.  Then  there  were  the  wine  jars  of 
red  earthenware,  the  memorial  stones  from  graves, 
and  the  heads  of  broken  gods,  with  fragments  of 

"5 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

occult  things  used  in  the  secret  rites  of  Mithras. 
Lucian  read  on  the  labels  where  all  these  objects 
were  found:  in  the  churchyard,  beneath  the  turf  of 
the  meadow,  and  in  the  old  cemetery  near  the 
forest;  and  whenever  it  was  possible  he  would  make 
his  way  to  the  spot  of  discovery,  and  imagine  the 
long  darkness  that  had  hidden  gold  and  stone  and 
amber.  All  these  investigations  were  necessary  for 
the  scheme  he  had  in  view,  so  he  became  for  some 
time  quite  a  familiar  figure  in  the  dusty  deserted 
streets  and  in  the  meadows  by  the  river.  His  con- 
tinual visits  to  Caermaen  were  a  tortuous  puzzle  to 
the  inhabitants,  who  flew  to  their  windows  at  the 
sound  of  a  step  on  the  uneven  pavements.  They 
were  at  a  loss  in  their  conjectures;  his  motive  for 
coming  down  three  times  a  week  must  of  course  be 
bad,  but  it  seemed  undiscoverable.  And  Lucian  on 
his  side  was  at  first  a  good  deal  put  out  by  occasional 
encounters  with  members  of  the  Gervase  or  Dixon 
or  Colley  tribes ;  he  had  often  to  stop  and  exchange 
a  few  conventional  expressions,  and  such  meetings, 
casual  as  they  were,  annoyed  and  distracted  him. 
He  was  no  longer  infuriated  or  wounded  by  sneers 
or  contempt  or  by  the  cackling  laughter  of  the 
young  people  when  they  passed  him  on  the  road 
(his  hat  was  a  shocking  one  and  his  untidiness  ter- 
rible), but  such  incidents  were  unpleasant  just  as  the 
smell  of  a  drain  was  unpleasant,  and  threw  the 
strange  mechanism  of  his  thoughts  out  of  gear  for 

;n6 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  time.  Then  he  had  been  disgusted  by  the  affair 
of  the  boys  and  the  little  dog;  the  loathsomeness  of 
it  had  quite  broken  up  his  fancies.  He  had  read 
books  of  modern  occultism,  and  remembered  some 
of  the  experiments  described.  The  adept,  it  was 
alleged,  could  transfer  the  sense  of  consciousness 
from  the  brain  to  the  foot  or  hand,  he  could  anni- 
hilate the  world  around  him  and  pass  into  another 
sphere.  Lucian  wondered  whether  he  could  not 
perform  some  such  operation  for  his  own  benefit. 
Human  beings  were  constantly  annoying  him  and 
geting  in  his  way;  was  it  not  possible  to  annihilate 
the  race,  or  at  all  events  to  reduce  them  to  wholly 
insignificant  forms?  A  certain  process  suggested 
itself  to  his  mind,  a  work  partly  mental  and  partly 
physical,  and  after  two  or  three  experiments  he 
found  to  his  astonishment  and  delight  that  it  was 
successful.  Here,  he  thought,  he  had  discovered 
one  of  the  secrets  of  true  magic,  this  was  the  key  to 
the  symbolic  transmutations  of  the  eastern  tales. 
The  adept  could,  in  truth,  change  those  who  were 
obnoxious  to  him  into  harmless  and  unimportant 
shapes,  not  as  in  the  letter  of  the  old  stories,  by 
transforming  the  enemy,  but  by  transforming  him- 
self. The  magician  puts  men  below  him  by  going 
up  higher,  as  one  looks  down  on  a  mountain  city 
from  a  loftier  crag.  The  stones  on  the  road  and 
such  petty  obstacles  do  not  trouble  the  wise  man  on 
the  great  journey,  and  so  Lucian  when  obliged  to 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

stop  and  converse  with  his  fellow-creatures,  to  listen 
to  their  poor  pretences  and  inanities,  was  no  more 
inconvenienced  than  when  he  had  to  climb  an  awk- 
ward stile  in  the  course  of  a  walk.  As  for  the  more 
unpleasant  manifestations  of  humanity:  after  all 
they  no  longer  concerned  him.  Men  intent  on  the 
great  purpose  did  not  suffer  the  current  of  their 
thoughts  to  be  broken  by  the  buzzing  of  a  fly 
caught  in  a  spider's  web,  so  why  should  he  be  per- 
turbed by  the  misery  of  a  puppy  in  the  hands  of 
village  boys?  The  fly,  no  doubt,  endured  its  tor- 
tures ;  lying  helpless  and  bound  in  those  slimy  bands, 
it  cried  out  in  its  thin  voice  when  the  claws  of  the 
horrible  monster  fastened  on  it;  but  its  dying 
agonies  had  never  vexed  the  reverie  of  a  lover. 
Lucian  saw  no  reason  why  the  boys  should  offend 
him  more  than  the  spider,  or  why  he  should  pity  the 
dog  more  than  he  pitied  the  fly.  The  talk  of  men 
and  women  might  be  wearisome  and  inept  and  often 
malignant;  but  he  could  not  imagine  an  alchemist 
at  the  moment  of  success,  a  general  in  the  hour  of 
victory,  or  a  financier  with  a  gigantic  scheme  of 
swindling  well  on  the  market  being  annoyed  by  the 
buzz  of  insects.  The  spider  is,  no  doubt,  a  very 
terrible  brute  with  a  hideous  mouth  and  hairy  tiger- 
like  claws  when  seen  through  the  microscope;  but 
Lucian  had  taken  away  the  microscope  from  his  eyes. 
He  could  now  walk  the  streets  of  Caermaen  confi- 
dent and  secure,  without  any  dread  of  interruption^ 

118 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

for  at  a  moment's  notice  the  transformation  could 
be  effected.  Once  Dr.  Burrows  caught  him  and 
made  him  promise  to  attend  a  bazaar  that  was  to 
be  held  in  aid  of  the  Hungarian  Protestants ;  Lucian 
assented  the  more  willingly  as  he  wished  to  pay  a 
visit  to  certain  curious  mounds  on  a  hill  a  little  way 
out  of  the  town,  and  he  calculated  on  slinking  off 
from  the  bazaar  early  in  the  afternoon.  Lord 
Beamys  was  visiting  Sir  Vivian  Ponsonby,  a  local 
magnate,  and  had  kindly  promised  to  drive  over 
and  declare  the  bazaar  open.  It  was  a  solemn  mo- 
ment when  the  carriage  drew  up  and  the  great  man 
alighted.  He  was  rather  an  evil-looking  old  noble- 
man, but  the  clergy  and  gentry,  their  wives  and  sons 
and  daughters  welcomed  him  with  a  great  and 
unctuous  joy.  Conversations  were  broken  off  in 
mid-sentence,  slow  people  gaped,  not  realising  why 
their  friends  had  so  suddenly  left  them,  the  Mey- 
ricks  came  up  hot  and  perspiring  in  fear  lest  they 
should  be  too  late,  Miss  Colley,  a  yellow  virgin  of 
austere  regard,  smiled  largely,  Mrs.  Dixon  beck- 
oned wildly  with  her  parasol  to  the  'girls'  who 
were  idly  strolling  in  a  distant  part  of  the  field,  and 
the  archdeacon  ran  at  full  speed.  The  air  grew 
dark  with  bows,  and  resonant  with  the  genial  laugh 
of  the  archdeacon,  the  cackle  of  the  younger  ladies, 
and  the  shrill  parrot-like  voices  of  the  matrons; 
those  smiled  who  had  never  smiled  before,  and  on 
some  maiden  faces  there  hovered  that  look  of  ador- 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ing  ecstasy  with  which  the  old  masters  graced  their 
angels.  Then,  when  all  the  due  rites  had  been  per- 
formed the  company  turned  and  began  to  walk  to- 
wards the  booths  of  their  small  Vanity  Fair.  Lord 
Beamys  led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Gervase,  Mrs.  Dixon 
followed  with  Sir  Vivian  Ponsonby,  and  the  multi- 
tudes that  followed  cried,  saying,  'What  a  dear  old 
man!' — 'Isn't  it  kind  of  him  to  come  all  this  way?' 
— 'What  a  sweet  expression,  isn't  it?' — 'I  think 
he's  an  old  love' — 'One  of  the  good  old  sort' — 'Real 
English  nobleman' — 'Oh  most  correct,  I  assure  you ; 
if  a  girl  gets  into  trouble,  notice  to  quit  at  once' — 
'Always  stands  by  the  Church' — 'Twenty  livings  in 
his  gift' — 'Voted  for  the  Public  Worship  Regula- 
tion Act' — 'Ten  thousand  acres  strictly  preserved.' 
The  old  lord  was  leering  pleasantly  and  muttering 
to  himself :  'Some  fine  gals  here.  Like  the  looks  of 
that  filly  with  the  pink  hat.  Ought  to  see  more  of 
her.  She'd  give  Lotty  points.' 

The  pomp  swept  slowly  across  the  grass:  the 
archdeacon  had  got  hold  of  Mr.  Dixon,  and  they 
were  discussing  the  misdeeds  of  some  clergyman  in 
the  rural  deanery. 

'I  can  scarce  credit  it,'  said  Mr.  Dixon. 

'Oh,  I  assure  you,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  We 
have  witnesses.  There  can  be  no  question  that 
there  was  a  procession  at  Llanfihangel  on  the  Sun- 
day before  Easter;  the  choir  and  minister  went 

1 2O 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

round  the  church,  carrying  palm  branches  in  their 
hands.' 

'Very  shocking.' 

'It  has  distressed  the  bishop.  Martin  is  a  hard- 
working man  enough,  and  all  that,  but  those  sort 
of  things  can't  be  tolerated.  The  bishop  told  me 
that  he  had  set  his  face  against  processions.' 

'Quite  right:  the  bishop  is  perfectly  right.  Pro- 
cessions are  unscriptural.' 

'It's  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge,  you  know,  Dixon.' 

'Exactly.  I  have  always  resisted  anything  of 
the  kind  here.' 

'Right.  Principiis  obsta,  you  know.  Martin  is 
so  imprudent.  There's  a  way  of  doing  things.' 

The  'scriptural'  procession  led  by  Lord  Beamys 
broke  up  when  the  stalls  were  reached  and  gathered 
round  the  nobleman  as  he  declared  the  bazaar  open. 

Lucian  was  sitting  on  a  garden-seat,  a  little  dis- 
tance off,  looking  dreamily  before  him.  And  all 
that  he  saw  was  a  swarm  of  flies  clustering  and 
buzzing  about  a  lump  of  tainted  meat  that  lay  on 
the  grass.  The  spectacle  in  no  way  interrupted  the 
harmony  of  his  thoughts,  and  soon  after  the  open- 
ing of  the  bazaar  he  went  quietly  away,  walking 
across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  the  ancient 
mounds  he  desired  to  inspect. 

All  these  journeys  of  his  to  Caermaen  and  its 
neighbourhood  had  a  peculiar  object;  he  was  grad- 

121 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ually  levelling  to  the  dust  the  squalid  kraals  of  mod- 
ern times,  and  rebuilding  the  splendid  and  golden 
city  of  Siluria.  All  this  mystic  town  was  for  the 
delight  of  his  sweetheart  and  himself;  for  her  the 
wonderful  villas,  the  shady  courts,  the  magic  of 
tessellated  pavements,  and  the  hangings  of  rich 
stuffs  with  their  intricate  and  glowing  patterns. 
Lucian  wandered  all  day  through  the  shining  streets, 
taking  shelter  sometimes  in  the  gardens  beneath  the 
dense  and  gloomy  ilex  trees,  and  listening  to  the 
plash  and  trickle  of  the  fountains.  Sometimes  he 
would  look  out  of  a  window  and  watch  the  crowd 
and  colour  of  the  market-place,  and  now  and  again 
a  ship  came  up  the  river  bringing  exquisite  silks  and 
the  merchandise  of  unknown  lands  in  the  Far  East. 
He  had  made  a  curious  and  accurate  map  of  the 
town  he  proposed  to  inhabit,  in  which  every  villa 
was  set  down  and  named.  He  drew  his  lines  to 
scale  with  the  gravity  of  a  surveyor,  and  studied  the 
plan  till  he  was  able  to  find  his  way  from  house  to 
house  on  the  darkest  summer  night.  On  the  south- 
ern slopes  about  the  town  there  were  vineyards,  al- 
ways under  a  glowing  sun,  and  sometimes  he  ven- 
tured to  the  furthest  ridge  of  the  forest,  where  the 
wild  people  still  lingered,  that  he  might  catch  the 
golden  gleam  of  the  city  far  away,  as  the  light  quiv- 
ered and  scintillated  on  the  glittering  tiles.  And 
there  were  gardens  outside  the  city  gates  where 
strange  and  brilliant  flowers  grew,  filling  the  hot  air 

122 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

with  their  odour,  and  scenting  the  breeze  that  blew 
along  the  streets.  The  dull  modern  life  was  far 
away,  and  people  who  saw  him  at  this  period  won- 
dered what  was  amiss;  the  abstraction  of  his  glance 
was  obvious,  even  to  eyes  not  over-sharp.  But  men 
and  women  had  lost  all  their  power  of  annoyance 
and  vexation;  they  could  no  longer  even  interrupt 
his  thought  for  a  moment.  He  could  listen  to  Mr. 
Dixon  with  apparent  attention,  while  he  was  in  re- 
ality enraptured  by  the  entreating  music  of  the 
double  flute,  played  by  a  girl  in  the  garden  of  Aval- 
launius,  for  that  was  the  name  he  had  taken.  Mr. 
Dixon  was  innocently  discoursing  archaeology,  giv- 
ing a  brief  resume  of  the  views  expressed  by  Mr. 
Wyndham  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  antiquarian 
society. 

'There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  temple  of  Diana 
stood  there  in  pagan  times,'  he  concluded,  and 
Lucian  assented  to  the  opinion,  and  asked  a  few 
questions  which  seemed  pertinent  enough.  But  all 
the  time  the  flute  notes  were  sounding  in  his  ears, 
and  the  ilex  threw  a  purple  shadow  on  the  white 
pavement  before  his  villa.  A  boy  came  forward 
from  the  garden;  he  had  been  walking  amongst  the 
vines  and  plucking  the  ripe  grapes,  and  the  juice 
had  trickled  down  over  his  breast.  Standing  beside 
the  girl,  unashamed  in  the  sunlight,  he  began  to  sing 
one  of  Sappho's  love  songs.  His  voice  was  as  full 
and  rich  as  a  woman's,  but  purged  of  all  emotion, 

123 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  was  an  instrument  of  music  in  the  flesh. 
Lucian  looked  at  him  steadily;  the  white  perfect 
body  shone  against  the  roses  and  the  blue  of  the 
sky,  clear  and  gleaming  as  marble  in  the  glare  of 
the  sun.  The  words  he  sang  burned  and  flamed 
with  passion,  and  he  was  as  unconscious  of  their 
meaning  as  the  twin  pipes  of  the  flute.  And  the 
girl  was  smiling.  The  vicar  shook  hands  and  went 
on,  well  pleased  with  his  remarks  on  the  temple  of 
Diana  and  also  with  Lucian's  polite  interest. 

'He  is  by  no  means  wanting  in  intelligence,'  he 
said  to  his  family.  'A  little  curious  in  manner,  per- 
haps, but  not  stupid.' 

'Oh,  papa,'  said  Henrietta,  'don't  you  think  he 
is  rather  silly?  He  can't  talk  about  anything — 
anything  interesting,  I  mean.  And  he  pretends  to 
know  a  lot  about  books,  but  I  heard  him  say  the 
other  day  he  had  never  read  The  Prince  of  the 
House  of  David  or  Ben-Hur.  Fancy  I' 

The  vicar  had  not  interrupted  Lucian.  The  sun 
still  beat  upon  the  roses,  and  a  little  breeze  bore 
the  scent  to  his  nostrils  together  with  the  smell  of 
grapes  and  vine-leaves.  He  had  become  curious 
in  sensation,  and  as  he  leant  back  upon  the  cushions 
covered  with  glistening  yellow  silk,  he  was  trying  to 
analyse  a  strange  ingredient  in  the  perfume  of  the 
air.  He  had  penetrated  far  beyond  the  crude  dis- 
tinctions of  modern  times,  beyond  the  rough: 
'there's  a  smell  of  roses,'  'there  must  be  sweetbriar 

124 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

somewhere.'  Modern  perceptions  of  odour  were, 
he  knew,  far  below  those  of  the  savage  in  delicacy. 
The  degraded  black  fellow  of  Australia  could  dis- 
tinguish odours  in  a  way  that  made  the  consumer 
of  'damper'  stare  in  amazement,  but  the  savage's 
sensations  were  all  strictly  utilitarian.  To  Lucian 
as  he  sat  in  the  cool  porch,  his  feet  on  the  marble, 
the  air  came  laden  with  scents  as  subtly  and  wonder- 
fully interwoven  and  contrasted  as  the  harmonies 
of  a  great  master.  The  stained  marble  of  the 
pavement  gave  a  cool  reminiscence  of  the  Italian 
mountain,  the  blood-red  roses  palpitating  in  the  sun- 
light sent  out  an  odour  mystical  as  passion  itself, 
and  there  was  the  hint  of  inebriation  in  the  perfume 
of  the  trellised  vines.  Besides  these,  the  girl's  de- 
sire and  the  unripe  innocence  of  the  boy  were  as 
distinct  as  benzoin  and  myrrh,  both  delicious  and 
exquisite,  and  exhaled  as  freely  as  the  scent  of  the 
roses.  But  there  was  another  element  that  puz- 
zled him,  an  aromatic  suggestion  of  the  forest. 
He  understood  it  at  last;  it  was  the  vapour  of  the 
great  red  pines  that  grew  beyond  the  garden;  their 
spicy  needles  were  burning  in  the  sun,  and  the  smell 
was  as  fragrant  as  the  fume  of  incense  blown  from 
far.  The  soft  entreaty  of  the  flute  and  the  swell- 
ing rapture  of  the  boy's  voice  beat  on  the  air  to- 
gether, and  Lucian  wondered  whether  there  were  in 
the  nature  of  things  any  true  distinction  between 
the  impressions  of  sound  and  scent  and  colour. 

125 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

The  violent  blue  of  the  sky,  the  song,  and  the  odours 
seemed  rather  varied  symbols  of  one  mystery  than 
distinct  entities.  He  could  almost  imagine  that  the 
boy's  innocence  was  indeed  a  perfume,  and  that  the 
palpitating  roses  had  become  a  sonorous  chant. 

In  the  curious  silence  which  followed  the  last 
notes,  when  the  boy  and  girl  had  passed  under  the 
purple  ilex  shadow,  he  fell  into  a  reverie.  The 
fancy  that  sensations  are  symbols  and  not  realities 
hovered  in  his  mind,  and  led  him  to  speculate  as  to 
whether  they  could  not  actually  be  transmuted  one 
into  another.  It  was  possible,  he  thought,  that  a 
whole  continent  of  knowledge  had  been  undis- 
covered; the  energies  of  men  having  been  expended 
in  unimportant  and  foolish  directions.  Modern  in- 
genuity had  been  employed  on  such  trifles  as  locomo- 
tive engines,  electric  cables,  and  cantilever  bridges; 
on  elaborate  devices  for  bringing  uninteresting 
people  nearer  together;  the  ancients  had  been  al- 
most as  foolish,  because  they  had  mistaken  the  sym- 
bol for  the  thing  signified.  It  was  not  the  material 
banquet  which  really  mattered,  but  the  thought  of 
it;  it  was  almost  as  futile  to  eat  and  take  emetics 
and  eat  again  as  to  invent  telephones  and  high- 
pressure  boilers.  As  for  some  other  ancient  meth- 
ods of  enjoying  life,  one  might  as  well  set  oneself  to 
improve  calico  printing  at  once. 

'Only  in  the  garden  of  Avallaunius,'  said  Lucian 
126 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

to  himself,  'is  the  true  and  exquisite  science  to  be 
found.' 

He  could  imagine  a  man  who  was  able  to  live  in 
one  sense  while  he  pleased;  to  whom,  for  example, 
every  impression  of  touch,  taste,  hearing,  or  seeing 
should  be  translated  into  odour;  who  at  the  desired 
kiss  should  be  ravished  with  the  scent  of  dark 
violets,  to  whom  music  should  be  the  perfume  of  a 
rose-garden  at  dawn. 

When,  now  and  again,  he  voluntarily  resumed 
the  experience  of  common  life,  it  was  that  he  might 
return  with  greater  delight  to  the  garden  in  the  city 
refuge.  In  the  actual  world  the  talk  was  of  Non- 
conformists, the  lodger  franchise,  and  the  Stock 
Exchange;  people  were  constantly  reading  news- 
papers, drinking  Australian  Burgundy,  and  doing 
other  things  equally  absurd.  They  either  looked 
shocked  when  the  fine  art  of  pleasure  was  mentioned, 
or  confused  it  with  going  to  musical  comedies, 
drinking  bad  whisky,  and  keeping  late  hours  in  dis- 
reputable and  vulgar  company.  He  found  to  his 
amusement  that  the  profligate  were  by  many  degrees 
duller  than  the  pious,  but  that  the  most  tedious  of 
all  were  the  persons  who  preached  promiscuity,  and 
called  their  system  of  'pigging'  the  'New  Morality.' 

He  went  back  to  the  city  lovingly,  because  it  was 
built  and  adorned  for  his  love.  As  the  metaphy- 
sicians insist  on  the  consciousness  of  the  ego  as  the 

127 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

implied  basis  of  all  thought,  so  he  knew  that  it  was 
she  in  whom  he  had  found  himself,  and  through 
whom  and  for  whom  all  the  true  life  existed.  He 
felt  that  Annie  had  taught  him  the  rare  magic  which 
had  created  the  garden  of  Avallaunius.  It  was  for 
her  that  he  sought  strange  secrets  and  tried  to  pene- 
trate the  mysteries  of  sensation,  for  he  could  only 
give  her  wonderful  thoughts  and  a  wonderful  life, 
and  a  poor  body  stained  with  the  scars  of  his  wor- 
ship. 

It  was  with  this  object,  that  of  making  the  of- 
fering of  himself  a  worthy  one,  that  he  continually 
searched  for  new  and  exquisite  experiences.  He 
made  lovers  come  before  him  and  confess  their 
secrets;  he  pried  into  the  inmost  mysteries  of  inno- 
cence and  shame,  noting  how  passion  and  reluctance 
strive  together  for  the  mastery.  In  the  ampitheatre 
he  sometimes  witnessed  strange  entertainments  in 
which  such  tales  as  Daphnis  and  Chloe  and  The 
Golden  Ass  were  performed  before  him.  These 
shows  were  always  given  at  night-time;  a  circle  of 
torchbearers  surrounded  the  stage  in  the  centre,  and 
above,  all  the  tiers  of  seats  were  dark.  He  would 
look  up  at  the  soft  blue  of  the  summer  sky,  and  at 
the  vast  dim  mountain  hovering  like  a  cloud  in  the 
west,  and  then  at  the  scene  illumined  by  a  flaring 
light,  and  contrasted  with  violent  shadows.  The 
subdued  mutter  of  conversation  in  a  strange  lan- 
guage rising  from  bench  after  bench,  swift  hissing 

128 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

whispers  of  explanation,  now  and  then  a  shout  or  a 
cry  as  the  interest  deepened,  the  restless  tossing  of 
the  people  as  the  end  drew  near,  an  arm  lifted,  a 
cloak  thrown  back,  the  sudden  blaze  of  a  torch 
lighting  up  purple  or  white  or  the  gleam  of  gold  in 
the  black  serried  ranks;  these  were  impressions  that 
seemed  always  amazing.  And  above,  the  dusky 
light  of  the  stars,  around,  the  sweet-scented  mead- 
ows, and  the  twinkle  of  lamps  from  the  still  city,  the 
cry  of  the  sentries  about  the  walls,  the  wash  of  the 
tide  filling  the  river,  and  the  salt  savour  of  the  sea. 
With  such  a  scenic  ornament  he  saw  the  tale  of  Apu- 
leius  represented,  heard  the  names  of  Fotis  and 
Byrrhaena  and  Lucius  proclaimed,  and  the  deep  in- 
tonation of  such  sentences  as  Ecce  Veneris  hortator 
et  armiger  Liber  advenlt  ultra.  The  tale  went  on 
through  all  its  marvellous  adventures,  and  Lucian 
left  the  ampitheatre  and  walked  beside  the  river 
where  he  could  hear  indistinctly  the  noise  of  voices 
and  the  singing  Latin,  and  note  how  the  rumour  of 
the  stage  mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  shudder- 
ing reeds  and  the  cool  lapping  of  the  tide.  Then 
came  the  farewell  of  the  cantor,  the  thunder  of  ap- 
plause, the  crash  of  cymbals,  the  calling  of  the  flutes, 
and  the  surge  of  the  wind  in  the  great  dark  wood. 
At  other  times  it  was  his  chief  pleasure  to  spend 
a  whole  day  in  a  vineyard  planted  on  the  steep  slope 
beyond  the  bridge.  A  grey  stone  seat  had  been 
placed  beneath  a  shady  laurel,  and  here  he  often  sat 

129 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

without  motion  or  gesture  for  many  hours.  Below 
him  the  tawny  river  swept  round  the  town  in  a  half 
circle;  he  could  see  the  swirl  of  the  yellow  water, 
its  eddies  and  minature  whirlpools,  as  the  tide 
poured  up  from  the  south.  And  beyond  the  river 
the  strong  circuit  of  the  walls,  and  within,  the  city 
glittered  like  a  charming  piece  of  mosaic.  He  freed 
himself  from  the  obtuse  modern  view  of  towns  as 
places  where  human  beings  live  and  make  money  and 
rejoice  or  suffer,  for  from  the  standpoint  of  the  mo- 
ment such  facts  were  wholly  impertinent.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  for  his  present  purpose  the  tawny 
sheen  and  shimmer  of  the  tide  was  the  only  fact  of 
importance  about  the  river,  and  so  he  regarded  the 
city  as  a  curious  work  in  jewellery.  Its  radiant 
marble  porticoes,  the  white  walls  of  the  villas,  a 
dome  of  burning  copper,  the  flash  and  scintillation 
of  tiled  roofs,  the  quiet  red  of  brickwork,  dark 
groves  of  ilex,  and  cypress,  and  laurel,  glowing  rose- 
gardens,  and  here  and  there  the  silver  of  a  fountain, 
seemed  arranged  and  contrasted  with  a  wonderful 
art,  and  the  town  appeared  a  delicious  ornament, 
every  cube  of  colour  owing  its  place  to  the  thought 
and  inspiration  of  the  artificer.  Lucian,  as  he  gazed 
from  his  arbour  amongst  the  trellised  vines,  lost 
none  of  the  subtle  pleasures  of  the  sight;  noting 
every  nuance  of  colour,  he  let  his  eyes  dwell  for  a 
moment  on  the  scarlet  flash  of  poppies,  and  then 
on  a  glazed  roof  which  in  the  glance  of  the  sun 

130 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

seemed  to  spout  white  fire.  A  square  of  vines  was 
like  some  rare  green  stone ;  the  grapes  were  massed 
so  richly  amongst  the  vivid  leaves,  that  even  from 
far  off  there  was  a  sense  of  irregular  flecks  and 
stains  of  purple  running  through  the  green.  The 
laurel  garths  were  like  cool  jade;  the  gardens,  where 
red,  yellow,  blue  and  white  gleamed  together  in  a 
mist  of  heat,  had  the  radiance  of  opal;  the  river 
was  a  band  of  dull  gold.  On  every  side,  as  if  to  en- 
hance the  preciousness  of  the  city,  the  woods  hung 
dark  on  the  hills ;  above,  the  sky  was  violet,  specked 
with  minute  feathery  clouds,  white  as  snowflakes. 
It  reminded  him  of  a  beautiful  bowl  in  his  villa; 
the  ground  was  of  that  same  brilliant  blue,  and  the 
artist  had  fused  into  the  work  when  it  was  hot  par- 
ticles of  pure  white  glass. 

For  Lucian  this  was  a  spectacle  that  enchanted 
many  hours;  leaning  on  one  hand,  he  would  gaze 
at  the  city  glowing  in  the  sunlight  till  the  purple 
shadows  grew  down  the  slopes  and  the  long  melo- 
dious trumpet  sounded  for  the  evening  watch. 
Then,  as  he  strolled  beneath  the  trellises,  he  would 
see  all  the  radiant  facets  glimmering  out,  and  the 
city  faded  into  haze,  a  white  wall  shining  here  and 
there,  and  the  gardens  veiled  in  a  dim,  rich  glow. 
On  such  an  evening  he  would  go  home  with  the 
sense  that  he  had  truly  lived  a  day,  having  received 
for  many  hours  the  most  acute  impressions  of 
beautiful  colour. 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Often  he  spent  the  night  in  the  cool  court  of  his 
villa  lying  amidst  soft  cushions  heaped  upon  the 
marble  bench.  A  lamp  stood  on  the  table  at  his  el- 
bow, its  light  making  the  water  in  the  cistern 
twinkle.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  court  except  the 
soft  continual  plashing  of  the  fountain.  Through- 
out these  still  hours  he  would  meditate,  and  he  be- 
came more  than  ever  convinced  that  man  could,  if 
he  pleased,  become  lord  of  his  own  sensations. 
This,  surely,  was  the  true  meaning  concealed  under 
the  beautiful  symbolism  of  alchemy.  Some  years  be- 
fore he  had  read  many  of  the  wonderful  alchemical 
books  of  the  later  Middle  Ages,  and  had  suspected 
that  something  other  than  the  turning  of  lead  into 
gold  was  intended.  This  impression  was  deepened 
when  he  looked  into  Lumen  de  Lumine  by  Vaughan, 
the  brother  of  the  Silurist,  and  he  had  long  puzzled 
himself  in  the  endeavour  to  find  a  reasonable  inter- 
pretation of  the  hermetic  mystery,  and  of  the  red 
powder,  'glistering  and  glorious  as  the  sun.'  And 
the  solution  shone  out  at  last,  bright  and  amazing, 
as  he  lay  quiet  in  the  court  of  Avallaunius. 

He  knew  that  he  himself  had  solved  the  riddle, 
that  he  held  in  his  hand  the  powder  of  projection, 
the  philosopher's  stone  transmuting  all  it  touched 
to  fine  gold;  the  gold  of  exquisite  impressions. 
He  understood  now  something  of  the  alchemical 
symbolism;  the  crucible  and  the  furnace,  the  'Green 
Dragon,'  and  the  'Son  Blessed  of  the  Fire'  had,  he 

132 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

saw,  a  peculiar  meaning.  He  understood  too  why 
the  uninitiated  were  warned  of  the  terror  and  danger 
through  which  they  must  pass;  and  the  vehemence 
with  which  the  adepts  disclaimed  all  desire  for  ma- 
terial riches  no  longer  struck  him  as  singular.  The 
wise  man  does  not  endure  the  torture  of  the  fur- 
nace in  order  that  he  may  be  able  to  compete  with 
operators  in  pork  and  company  promoters;  neither 
a  steam  yacht,  nor  a  grouse-moor,  nor  three  liveried 
footmen  would  add  at  all  to  his  gratifications. 
Again  Lucian  said  to  himself: 

'Only  in  the  court  of  Avallaunius  is  the  true 
science  of  the  exquisite  to  be  found.' 

He  saw  the  true  gold  into  which  the  beggarly 
matter  of  existence  may  be  transmuted  by  spagyric 
art;  a  succession  of  delicious  moments,  all  the  rare 
flavours  of  life  concentrated,  purged  of  their  lees, 
and  preserved  in  a  beautiful  vessel.  The  moonlight 
fell  green  on  the  fountain  and  on  the  curious  pave- 
ments, and  in  the  long  sweet  silence  of  the  night  he 
lay  still  and  felt  that  thought  itself  was  an  acute 
pleasure,  to  be  expressed  perhaps  in  terms  of  odour 
or  colour  by  the  true  artist. 

And  he  gave  himself  other  and  even  stranger 
gratifications.  Outside  the  city  walls,  between  the 
baths  and  the  amphitheatre,  was  a  tavern,  a  place 
where  wonderful  people  met  to  drink  wonderful 
wine.  There  he  saw  priests  of  Mithras  and  Isis 
and  of  more  occult  rites  from  the  East,  men  who 

'33 


.  The  Hill  of  Dreams 

wore  robes  of  bright  colours,  and  grotesque  orna- 
ments, symbolising  secret  things.  They  spoke 
amongst  themselves  in  a  rich  jargon  of  coloured 
words,  full  of  hidden  meanings  and  the  sense  of 
matters  unintelligible  to  the  uninitiated,  alluding  to 
what  was  concealed  beneath  roses,  and  calling  each 
other  by  strange  names.  And  there  were  actors 
who  gave  the  shows  in  the  amphitheatre,  officers 
of  the  legion  who  had  served  in  wild  places,  singers, 
and  dancing  girls,  and  heroes  of  strange  adventure. 

The  walls  of  the  tavern  were  covered  with 
pictures  painted  in  violent  hues;  blues  and  reds  and 
greens  jarring  against  one  another  and  lighting  up 
the  gloom  of  the  place.  The  stone  benches  were 
always  crowded,  the  sunlight  cany  in  through  the 
door  in  a  long  bright  beam,  casting^faancing  shadow 
of  vine  leaves  on  the  further  wall.  There  a  painter 
had  made  a  joyous  figure  of  the  young  Bacchus 
driving  the  leopards  before  him  with  his  ivy-staff, 
and  the  quivering  shadow  seemed  a  part  of  the 
picture.  The  room  was  cool  and  dark  and  cavern- 
ous, but  the  scent  and  heat  of  the  summer  gushed 
In  through  the  open  door.  There  was  ever  a  full 
sound,  with  noise  and  vehemence,  there,  and  the 
rolling  music  of  the  Latin  tongue  never  ceased. 

'The  wine  of  the  siege,  the  wine  that  we  saved,' 
cried  one. 

'Look  for  the  jar  marked  Faunus;  you  will  be 
glad.' 

'34 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'Bring  me  the  wine  of  the  Owl's  Face.' 
'Let  us  have  the  wine  of  Saturn's  Bridge.' 
The  boys  who  served  brought  the  wine  in  dull  red 
jars  that  struck  a  charming  note  against  their  white 
robes.  They  poured  out  the  violet  and  purple  and 
golden  wine  with  calm  sweet  faces  as  if  they  were 
assisting  in  the  mysteries,  without  any  sign  that  they 
heard  the  strange  words  that  flashed  from  side  to 
side.  The  cups  were  all  of  glass :  some  were  of 
deep  green,  of  the  colour  of  the  sea  near  the  land, 
flawed  and  specked  with  the  bubbles  of  the  furnace. 
Others  were  of  brilliant  scarlet,  streaked  with  ir- 
regular bands  of  white,  and  having  the  appearance 
of  white  globules  in  the  moulded  stem.  There  were 
cups  of  dark  glowing  blue,  deeper  and  more  shining 
than  the -blue  of  the  sky,  and  running  through  the 
substance  of  the  glass  were  veins  of  rich  gamboge 
yellow,  twining  from  the  brim  to  the  foot.  Some 
cups  were  of  a  troubled  and  clotted  red,  with  alter- 
nating blotches  of  dark  and  light,  some  were  varie- 
gated with  white  and  yellow  stains,  some  wore  a 
film  of  rainbow  colors,  some  glittered,  shot  with 
gold  threads  through  the  clear  crystal,  some  were 
as  if  sapphires  hung  suspended  in  running  water, 
some  sparkled  with  the  glint  of  stars,  some  were 
black  and  golden  like  the  tortoiseshell. 

A  strange  feature  was  the  constant  and  flutter- 
ing motion  of  hands  and  arms.  Gesture  made  a 
constant  commentary  on  speech;  white  fingers, 

135 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

whiter  arms,  and  sleeves  of  all  colours,  hovered 
restlessly,  appeared  and  disappeared  with  an  effect 
of  threads  crossing  and  recrossing  on  the  loom. 
And  the  odour  of  the  place  was  both  curious  and 
memorable;  something  of  the  damp  cold  breath  of 
the  cave  meeting  the  hot  blast  of  summer,  the 
strangely  mingled  aromas  of  rare  wines  as  they  fell 
plashing  and  ringing  into  the  cups,  the  drugged  va- 
pour of  the  East  that  the  priests  of  Mithras  and 
Isis  bore  from  their  steaming  temples;  these  were 
always  strong  and  dominant.  And  the  women  were 
scented,  sometimes  with  unctuous  and  overpower- 
ing perfumes,  and  to  the  artist  the  experiences  of 
those  present  were  hinted  in  subtle  and  delicate 
nuances  of  odour 

They  drank  their  wine  and  caressed  all  day  in 
the  tavern.  The  women  threw  their  round  white 
arms  about  their  lover's  necks,  they  intoxicated  them 
with  the  scent  of  their  hair,  the  priests  muttered 
their  fantastic  jargon  of  Theurgy.  And  through 
the  sonorous  clash  of  voices  there  always  seemed 
the  ring  of  the  cry: 

'Look  for  the  jar  marked  Faunus;  you  will  be 
glad.' 

Outside,  the  vine  tendrils  shook  on  the  white 
walls  glaring  in  the  sunshine;  the  breeze  swept  up 
from  the  yellow  river,  pungent  with  the  salt  sea 
savour. 

These  tavern  scenes  were  often  the  subject  of 
136 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Lucian's  meditation  as  he  sat  amongst  the  cushions 
on  the  marble  seat.  The  rich  sound  of  the  voices 
impressed  him  above  all  things,  and  he  saw  that 
words  have  a  far  higher  reason  than  the  utilitarian 
office  of  imparting  a  man's  thought.  The  com- 
mon notion  that  language  and  linked  words  are  im- 
portant only  as  a  means  of  expression  he  found  a 
little  ridiculous;  as  if  electricity  were  to  be  studied 
solely  with  the  view  of  'wiring'  to  people,  and  all  its 
other  properties  left  unexplored,  neglected.  Lan- 
guage, he  understood,  was  chiefly  important  for  the 
beauty  of  its  sounds,  by  its  possession  of  words  res- 
onant, glorious  to  the  ear,  by  its  capacity,  when  ex- 
quisitely arranged,  of  suggesting  wonderful  and  in- 
definable impressions,  perhaps  more  ravishing  and 
farther  removed  from  the  domain  of  strict  thought 
than  the  impressions  excited  by  music  itself.  Here 
lay  hidden  the  secret  of  the  sensuous  art  of  liter- 
ature, it  was  the  secret  of  suggestion,  the  art  of 
causing  delicious  sensation  by  the  use  of  words.  In 
a  way,  therefore,  literature  was  independent  of 
thought;  the  mere  English  listener,  if  he  had  an  ear 
attuned,  could  recognise  the  beauty  of  a  splendid 
Latin  phrase. 

Here  was  the  explanation  of  the  magic  of  Lycidas. 
From  the  standpoint  of  the  formal  understanding 
it  was  an  effected  lament  over  some  wholly  uninter- 
esting and  unimportant  Mr.  King;  it  was  full  of  non- 
sense about  'shepherds'  and  'flocks'  and  'muses'  and 

137 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

such  stale  stock  of  poetry;  the  introduction  of  St. 
Peter  on  a  stage  thronged  with  nymphs  and  river 
gods  was  blasphemous,  absurd,  and,  in  the  worst 
taste,  there  were  touches  of  greasy  Puritanism,  the 
twang  of  the  conventicle  was  only  too  apparent. 
And  Lycidas  was  probably  the  most  perfect  piece 
of  pure  literature  in  existence;  because  every  word 
and  phrase  and  line  were  sonorous,  ringing  and 
echoing  with  music. 

'Literature,'  he  re-enunciated  in  his  mind,  'is  the 
sensuous  art  of  causing  exquisite  impressions  by 
means  of  words.' 

And  yet  there  was  something  more;  besides  the 
logical  thought,  which  was  often  a  hindrance,  a 
troublesome  though  inseparable  accident,  besides 
the  sensation,  always  a  pleasure  and  a  delight,  be- 
sides these  there  were  the  indefinable  inexpressible 
images  which  all  fine  literature  summons  to  the  mind. 
As  the  chemist  in  his  experiments  is  sometimes 
astonished  to  find  unknown,  unexpected  elements  in 
the  crucible  or  the  receiver,  as  the  world  of  material 
things  is  considered  by  some  a  thin  veil  of  the  im- 
material universe,  so  he  who  reads  wonderful  prose 
or  verse  is  conscious  of  suggestions  that  cannot  be 
put  into  words,  which  do  not  rise  from  the  logical 
sense,  which  are  rather  parallel  to  than  connected 
with  the  sensuous  delight.  The  world  so  disclosed 
is  rather  the  world  of  dreams,  rather  the  world  in 
which  children  sometimes  live,  instantly  appearing, 

138 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  instantly  vanishing  away,  a  world  beyond  all  ex- 
pression or  analysis,  neither  of  the  intellect  nor  of 
the  senses.  He  called  these  fancies  of  his  'Med- 
itations of  a  Tavern,'  and  was  amused  to  think  that 
a  theory  of  letters  should  have  risen  from  the  elo- 
quent noise  that  rang  all  day  about  the  violet  and 
golden  wine. 

'Let  us  seek  for  more  exquisite  things,'  said 
Lucian  to  himself.  He  could  almost  imagine  the 
magic  transmutation  of  the  senses  accomplished,  the 
strong  sunlight  was  an  odour  in  his  nostrils;  it 
poured  down  on  the  white  marble  and  the  palpitat- 
ing roses  like  a  flood.  The  sky  was  a  glorious  blue, 
making  the  heart  joyous,  and  the  eyes  could  rest  in 
the  dark  green  leaves  and  purple  shadow  of  the  ilex. 
The  earth  seemed  to  burn  and  leap  beneath  the  sun, 
he  fancied  he  could  see  the  vine  tendrils  stir  and 
quiver  in  the  heat,  and  the  faint  fume  of  the  scorch- 
ing pine  needles  was  blown  across  the  gleaming  gar- 
den to  the  seat  beneath  the  porch.  Wine  was  be- 
fore him  in  a  cup  of  carved  amber;  a  wine  of  the 
colour  of  a  dark  rose,  with  a  glint  as  of  a  star  or  of 
a  jet  of  flame  deep  beneath  the  brim;  and  the  cup 
was  twined  about  with  a  delicate  wreath  of  ivy.  He 
was  often  loath  to  turn  away  from  the  still  contem- 
plation of  such  things,  from  the  mere  joy  of  the 
violent  sun,  and  the  responsive  earth.  He  loved  his 
garden  and  the  view  of  the  tessellated  city  from  the 
vineyard  on  the  hill,  the  strange  clamour  of  the 

139 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

tavern,  and  white  Fotis  appearing  on  the  torch-lit 
stage.  And  there  were  shops  in  the  town  in  which 
he  delighted,  the  shops  of  the  perfume  makers,  and 
jewellers,  and  dealers  in  curious  ware.  He  loved 
to  see  all  things  made  for  ladies'  use,  to  touch  the 
gossamer  silks  that  were  to  touch  their  bodies,  to 
finger  the  beads  of  amber  and  the  gold  chains  which 
would  stir  above  their  hearts,  to  handle  the  carved 
hairpins  and  brooches,  to  smell  odours  which  were 
already  dedicated  to  love. 

But  though  these  were  sweet  and  delicious  grati- 
fications, he  knew  that  there  were  more  exquisite 
things  of  which  he  might  be  a  spectator.  He  had 
seen  the  folly  of  regarding  fine  literature  from  the 
standpoint  of  the  logical  intellect,  and  he  now  be- 
gan to  question  the  wisdom  of  looking  at  life  as  if 
it  were  a  moral  representation.  Literature,  he 
knew,  could  not  exist  without  some  meaning,  and 
considerations  of  right  and  wrong  were  to  a  certain 
extent  inseparable  from  the  conception  of  life,  but 
to  insist  on  ethics  as  the  chief  interest  of  the  human 
pageant  was  surely  absurd.  One  might  as  well  read 
Lycidas  for  the  sake  of  its  denunciation  of  'our  cor- 
rupted Clergy,'  or  Homer  for  'manners  and  cus- 
toms.' An  artist  entranced  by  landscape  did  not 
greatly  concern  himself  with  the  geological  form- 
ation of  the  hills,  nor  did  the  lover  of  a  wild  sea 
inquire  as  to  the  chemical  analysis  of  the  water. 
Lucian  saw  a  coloured  and  complex  life  displayed 

140 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

before  him,  and  he  sat  enraptured  at  the  spectacle, 
not  concerned  to  know  whether  actions  were  good 
or  bad,  but  content  if  they  were  curious. 

In  this  spirit  he  made  a  singular  study  of  corrup- 
tion. Beneath  his  feet,  as  he  sat  in  the  garden 
porch,  was  a  block  of  marble  through  which  there 
ran  a  scarlet  stain.  It  began  with  a  faint  line,  thin 
as  a  hair,  and  grew  as  it  advanced,  sending  out  off- 
shoots to  right  and  left,  and  broadening  to  a  pool 
of  brilliant  red.  There  were  strange  lives  into 
which  he  looked  that  were  like  the  block  of  marble; 
women  with  grave  sweet  faces  told  him  the  astound- 
ing tale  of  their  adventures,  and  how,  as  they  said, 
they  had  met  the  faun  when  they  were  little  chil- 
dren. They  told  him  how  they  had  played  and 
watched  by  the  vines  and  the  fountains,  and  dallied 
with  the  nymphs,  and  gazed  at  images  reflected  in 
the  water  pools,  till  the  authentic  face  appeared 
from  the  wood.  He  heard  others  tell  how  they 
had  loved  the  satyrs  for  many  years  before  they 
knew  their  race;  and  there  were  strange  stones  of 
those  who  had  longed  to  speak  but  knew  not  the 
word  of  the  enigma,  and  searched  in  all  strange 
paths  and  ways  before  they  found  it. 

He  heard  the  history  of  the  woman  who  fell  in 
love  with  her  slave-boy,  and  tempted  him  for  three 
years  in  vain.  He  heard  the  tale  from  the  woman's 
full  red  lips,  and  watched  her  face,  full  of  the  in- 
effable sadness  of  lust  as  she  described  her  curious 

141 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

strategems  in  mellow  phrases.  She  was  drinking 
a  sweet  yellow  wine  from  a  gold  cup  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  odour  in  her  hair  and  the  aroma  of  the 
precious  wine  seemed  to  mingle  with  the  soft 
strange  words  that  flowed  like  an  unguent  from  a 
carven  jar.  She  told  how  she  bought  the  boy  in  the 
market  of  an  Asian  city,  and  had  him  carried  to 
her  house  in  the  grove  of  fig-trees.  'Then,'  she 
went  on,  'he  was  led  into  my  presence  as  I  sat  be- 
tween the  columns  of  my  court.  A  blue  veil  was 
spread  above  to  shut  out  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and 
rather  twilight  than  light  shone  on  the  painted 
walls,  and  the  wonderful  colours  of  the  pavement, 
and  the  images  of  Love  and  the  Mother  of  Love. 
The  men  who  brought  the  boy  gave  him  over  to  my 
girls,  who  undressed  him  before  me,  one  drawing 
gently  away  his  robe,  another  stroking  his  brown 
and  flowing  hair,  another  praising  the  whiteness  of 
his  limbs,  and  another  caressing  him,  and  speaking 
loving  words  in  his  ear.  But  the  boy  looked  sul- 
lenly at  them  all,  striking  away  their  hands,  and 
pouting  with  his  lovely  and  splendid  lips,  and  I  saw 
a  blush,  like  the  rosy  veil  of  dawn,  reddening  his 
body  and  his  cheeks.  Then  I  made  them  bathe 
him,  and  anoint  him  with  scented  oils  from  head  to 
foot,  till  his  limbs  shone  and  glistened  with  the 
gentle  and  mellow  glow  of  an  ivory  statue.  Then 
I  said:  "You  are  bashful,  because  you  shine  alone 
amongst  us  all;  see,  we  too  will  be  your  fellows." 

142 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

The  girls  began  first  of  all,  fondling  and  kissing  one 
another,  and  doing  for  each  other  the  offices  of  wait- 
ing maids.  They  drew  out  the  pins  and  loosened  the 
bands  of  their  hair,  and  I  never  knew  before  that 
they  were  so  lovely.  The  soft  and  shining  tresses 
flowed  down,  rippling  like  the  sea  waves;  some  had 
hair  golden  and  radiant  as  this  wine  in  my  cup,  the 
faces  of  others  appeared  amidst  the  blackness  of 
ebony;  there  were  locks  that  seemed  of  burnished 
and  scintillating  copper,  some  glowed  with  hair  of 
tawny  splendour,  and  others  were  crowned  with  the 
brightness  of  the  sardonyx.  Then,  laughing,  and 
without  the  appearance  of  shame,  they  unfastened 
the  brooches  and  the  bands  that  sustained  their 
robes,  and  so  allowed  silk  and  linen  to  flow  swiftly  to 
the  stained  floor,  so  that  one  would  have  said  there 
was  a  sudden  apparition  of  the  fairest  nymphs. 
With  many  festive  and  jocose  words  they  began  to 
incite  each  other  to  mirth,  praising  the  beauties 
that  shone  on  every  side,  and  calling  the  boy  by  a 
girl's  name,  they  invited  him  to  be  their  playmate. 
But  he  refused,  shaking  his  head,  and  still  stand- 
ing dumbfounded  and  abashed,  as  if  he  saw  a  for- 
bidden and  terrible  spectacle.  Then  I  ordered  the 
women  to  undo  my  hair  and  my  clothes,  making 
them  caress  me  with  the  tenderness  of  the  fondest 
lover,  but  without  avail,  for  the  foolish  boy  still 
scowled  and  pouted  out  his  lips,  stained  with  an 
imperial  and  glorious  scarlet.' 

143 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

She  poured  out  more  of  the  topaz-coloured  wine 
in  her  cup,  and  Lucian  saw  it  glitter  as  it  rose  to 
the  brim  and  mirrored  the  gleam  of  the  lamps. 
The  tale  went  on,  recounting  a  hundred  strange  de- 
vices. The  woman  told  how  she  had  tempted  the 
boy  by  idleness  and  ease,  giving  him  long  hours  of 
sleep,  and  allowing  him  to  recline  all  day  on  soft 
cushions,  that  swelled  about  him,  enclosing  his  body. 
She  tried  the  experiment  of  curious  odours:  caus- 
ing him  to  smell  always  about  him  the  oil  of  roses, 
and  burning  in  his  presence  rare  gums  from  the 
East.  He  was  allured  by  soft  dresses,  being 
clothed  in  silks  that  caressed  the  skin  with  the  sense 
of  a  fondling  touch.  Three  times  a  day  they 
spread  before  him  a  delicious  banquet,  full  of 
savour  and  odour  and  colour;  three  times  a  day  they 
endeavoured  to  intoxicate  him  with  delicate  wine. 

'And  so,'  the  lady  continued,  'I  spared  nothing  to 
catch  him  in  the  glistering  nets  of  love ;  taking  only 
sour  and  contemptuous  glances  in  return.  And  at 
last  in  an  incredible  shape  I  won  the  victory,  and 
then,  having  gained  a  green  crown  fighting  in  agony 
against  his  green  and  crude  immaturity,  I  devoted 
him  to  the  theatre,  where  he  amused  the  people  by 
the  splendour  of  his  death.' 

On  another  evening  he  heard  the  history  of  the 
man  who  dwelt  alone,  refusing  all  allurenments,  and 
was  at  last  discovered  to  be  the  lover  of  a  black 
statue.  And  there  were  tales  of  strange  cruelties, 

144 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

of  men  taken  by  mountain  robbers,  and  curiously 
maimed  and  disfigured,  so  that  when  they  escaped 
and  returned  to  the  town,  they  were  thought  to  be 
monsters  and  killed  at  their  own  doors.  Lucian 
left  no  dark  or  secret  nook  of  life  unvisited;  he  sat 
down,  as  he  said,  at  the  banquet  resolved  to  taste 
all  the  savours,  and  to  leave  no  flagon  unvisited. 

His  relations  grew  seriously  alarmed  about  him 
at  this  period.  While  he  heard  with  some  inner 
ear  the  suave  and  eloquent  phrases  of  singular  tales, 
and  watched  the  lamp-light  in  amber  and  purple 
wine,  his  father  saw  a  lean  pale  boy,  with  black 
eyes  that  burnt  in  hollows,  and  sad  and  sunken 
cheeks. 

'You  ought  to  try  and  eat  more,  Lucian,'  said 
the  parson;  'and  why  don't  you  have  some  beer?' 

He  was  pecking  feebly  at  the  roast  mutton  and 
sipping  a  little  water;  but  he  would  not  have  eaten 
or  drunk  with  more  relish  if  the  choicest  meat  and 
drink  had  been  before  him. 

His  bones  seemed,  as  Miss  Deacon  said,  to  be 
growing  through  his  skin ;  he  had  all  the  appearance 
of  an  ascetic  whose  body  has  been  reduced  to  misery 
by  long  and  grievous  penance.  People  who  chanced 
to  see  him  could  not  help  saying  to  one  another: 
'How  ill  and  wretched  that  Lucian  Taylor  looks!' 
They  were  of  course  quite  unaware  of  the  joy  and 
luxury  in  which  his  real  life  was  spent,  and  some  of 
them  began  to  pity  him,  and  to  speak  to  him  kindly. 

145 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

It  was  too  late  for  that.  The  friendly  words  had 
as  much  lost  their  meaning  as  the  words  of  contempt. 
Edward  Dixon  hailed  him  cheerfully  in  the  street 
one  day: 

'Come  into  my  den,  won't  you,  old  fellow?'  he 
said.  'You  won't  see  the  pater.  I've  managed  to 
bag  a  bottle  of  his  old  port.  I  know  you  smoke 
like  a  furnace,  and  I've  got  some  ripping  cigars. 
You  will  come,  won't  you !  I  can  tell  you  the  pater's 
booze  is  first  rate.' 

He  gently  declined  and  went  on.  Kindness  and 
unkindness,  pity  and  contempt  had  become  for  him 
mere  phrases;  he  could  not  have  distinguished  one 
from  the  other.  Hebrew  and  Chinese,  Hungarian 
and  Pushtu  would  be  pretty  much  alike  to  an  agri- 
cultural labourer;  if  he  cared  to  listen  he  might  de- 
tect some  general  differences  in  sound,  but  all  four 
tongues  would  be  equally  devoid  of  significance. 

To  Lucian,  entranced  in  the  garden  of  Aval- 
launius,  it  seemed  very  strange  that  he  had  once 
been  so  ignorant  of  all  the  exquisite  meanings  of 
life.  Now,  beneath  the  violet  sky,  looking  through 
the  brilliant  trellis  of  the  vines,  he  saw  the  picture; 
before,  he  had  gazed  in  sad  astonishment  at  the 
squalid  rag  which  was  wrapped  about  it. 


146 


v 

AND  he  was  at  last  in  the  city  of  the  un- 
ending murmuring  streets,  a  part  of  the 
stirring  shadow,  of  the  amber-lighted 
gloom. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  since  he  had  knelt  before 
his  sweetheart  in  the  lane,  the  moon-fire  streaming 
upon  them  from  the  dark  circle  of  the  fort,  the  air 
and  the  light  and  his  soul  full  of  haunting,  the  touch 
of  the  unimaginable  thrilling  his  heart;  and  now  he 
sat  in  a  terrible  'bed-sitting-room'  in  a  western  sub- 
urb, confronted  by  a  heap  and  litter  of  papers  on 
the  desk  of  a  battered  old  bureau. 

He  had  put  his  breakfast-tray  out  on  the  land- 
ing, and  was  thinking  of  the  morning's  work,  and 
of  some  very  dubious  pages  that  he  had  blackened 
the  night  before.  But  when  he  had  lit  his  disreput- 
able briar,  he  remembered  there  was  an  unopened 
letter  waiting  for  him  on  the  table;  he  had  re- 
cognised the  vague,  staggering  script  of  Miss 
Deacon,  his  cousin.  There  was  not  much  news;  his 
father  was  'just  the  same  as  usual,'  there  had  been  a 
good  deal  of  rain,  the  farmers  expected  to  make  a 
lot  of  cider,  and  so  forth.  But  at  the  close  of  the 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

letter  Miss  Deacon  became  useful  for  reproof  and 
admonition. 

'I  was  at  Caermaen  on  Tuesday,'  she  said,  'and 
called  on  the  Gervases  and  the  Dixons.  Mr.  Ger- 
vase  smiled  when  I  told  him  you  were  a  literary 
man,  living  in  London,  and  said  he  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't  find  it  a  very  practical  career.  Mrs.  Ger- 
vase  was  very  proud  of  Henry's  success;  he  passed 
fifth  for  some  examination,  and  will  begin  with 
nearly  four  hundred  a  year.  I  don't  wonder  the 
Gervases  are  delighted.  Then  I  went  to  the 
Dixon's,  and  had  tea.  Mrs.  Dixon  wanted  to  know 
if  you  had  published  anything  yet,  and  I  said  I 
thought  not.  She  showed  me  a  book  everybody  is 
talking  about,  called  the  Dog  and  the  Doctor. 
She  says  it's  selling  by  thousands,  and  that  one 
can't  take  up  a  paper  without  seeing  the  author's 
name.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  that  you  ought  to 
try  to  write  something  like  it.  Then  Mr.  Dixon 
came  in  from  the  study,  and  your  name  was  men- 
tioned again.  He  said  he  was  afraid  you  had  made 
rather  a  mistake  in  trying  to  take  up  literature  as 
if  it  were  a  profession,  and  seemed  to  think  that  a 
place  in  a  house  of  business  would  be  more  suitable 
and  more  practical.  He  pointed  out  that  you  had 
not  had  the  advantages  of  a  university  training,  and 
said  that  you  would  find  men  who  had  made  good 
friends,  and  had  the  tone  of  the  university,  would 
be  before  you  at  every  step.  He  said  Edward  was 

148 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

doing  very  well  at  Oxford.  He  writes  to  them  that 
he  knows  several  noblemen,  and  that  young  Philip 
Bullingham  (son  of  Sir  John  Bullingham)  is  his 
most  intimate  friend;  of  course  this  is  very  satis- 
factory for  the  Dixons.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear 
Lucian,  you  have  rather  overrated  your  powers. 
Wouldn't  it  be  better,  even  now,  to  look  out  for 
some  real  work  to  do,  instead  of  wasting  your  time 
over  those  silly  old  books.  I  know  quite  well  how 
the  Gervases  and  the  Dixons  feel;  they  think  idle- 
ness so  injurious  for  a  young  man,  and  likely  to 
lead  to  bad  habits.  You  know,  my  dear  Lucian,  I 
am  only  writing  like  this  because  of  my  affection  for 
you,  so  I  am  sure,  my  dear  boy,  you  won't  be  of- 
fended.' 

Lucian  pigeon-holed  the  letter  solemnly  in  the 
receptacle  lettered  'Barbarians.'  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  ask  himself  some  serious  questions:  'Why 
haven't  I  passed  fifth?  why  isn't  Philip  (son  of 
Sir  John)  my  most  intimate  friend?  why  am  I  an 
idler,  liable  to  fall  into  bad  habits?'  but  he  was 
eager  to  get  to  his  work,  a  curious  and  intricate 
piece  of  analysis.  So  the  battered  bureau,  the 
litter  of  papers,  and  the  thick  fume  of  his  pipe,  en- 
gulfed him  and  absorbed  him  for  the  rest  of  the 
morning.  Outside  were  the  dim  October  mists,  the 
dreary  and  languid  life  of  a  side  street,  and  beyond, 
on  the  main  road,  the  hum  and  jangle  of  the  gliding 
trams.  But  he  heard  none  of  the  uneasy  noises  of 

149 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  quarter,  not  even  the  shriek  of  the  garden  gates 
nor  the  yelp  of  the  butcher  on  his  rounds,  for  de- 
light in  his  great  task  made  him  unconscious  of  the 
world  outside. 

He  had  come  by  curious  paths  to  this  calm  hermi- 
tage between  Shepherd's  Bush  and  Acton  Vale. 
The  golden  weeks  of  the  summer  passed  on  in  their 
enchanted  procession,  and  Annie  had  not  returned, 
neither  had  she  written.  Lucian,  on  his  side,  sat 
apart,  wondering  why  his  longing  for  her  were  not 
sharper.  As  he  thought  of  his  raptures  he  would 
smile  faintly  to  himself,  and  wonder  whether  he 
had  not  lost  the  world  and  Annie  with  it.  In  the 
garden  of  Avallaunius  his  sense  of  external  things 
had  grown  dim  and  indistinct;  the  actual,  material 
life  seemed  every  day  to  become  a  show,  a  fleeting 
of  shadows  across  a  great  white  light.  At  last  the 
news  came  that  Annie  Morgan  had  been  married 
from  her  sister's  house  to  a  young  farmer,  to  whom, 
it  appeared,  she  had  been  long  engaged,  and  Lucian 
was  ashamed  to  find  himself  only  conscious  of 
amusement,  mingled  with  gratitude.  She  had  been 
the  key  that  opened  the  shut  palace,  and  he  was  now 
secure  on  the  throne  of  ivory  and  gold.  A  few 
days  after  he  had  heard  the  news  he  repeated  the 
adventure  of  his  boyhood;  for  the  second  time  he 
scaled  the  steep  hillside,  and  penetrated  the  matted 
brake.  He  expected  violent  disillusion,  but  his  feel- 
ing was  rather  astonishment  at  the  activity  of  boy- 

150 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ish  imagination.  There  was  no  terror  nor  amaze- 
ment now  in  the  green  bulwarks,  and  the  stunted 
undergrowth  did  not  seem  in  any  way  extraordi- 
nary. Yet  he  did  not  laugh  at  the  memory  of  his 
sensations,  he  was  not  angry  at  the  cheat.  Cer- 
tainly it  had  all  been  illusion,  all  the  heats  and  chills 
of  boyhood,  its  thoughts  of  terror  were  without 
significance.  But  he  recognised  that  the  illusions 
of  the  child  only  differed  from  those  of  the  man  in 
that  they  were  more  picturesque;  belief  in  fairies 
and  belief  in  the  Stock  Exchange  as  bestowers  of 
happiness  were  equally  vain,  but  the  latter  form  of 
faith  was  ugly  as  well  as  inept.  It  was  better,  he 
knew,  and  wiser,  to  wish  for  a  fairy  coach  than  to 
cherish  longings  for  a  well-appointed  brougham  and 
liveried  servants. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  green  walls  and  the 
dark  oaks  without  any  feeling  of  regret  or  resent- 
ment. After  a  while  he  began  to  think  of  his  ad- 
ventures with  pleasure;  the  ladder  by  which  he  had 
mounted  had  disappeared,  but  he  was  safe  on  the 
height.  By  the  chance  fancy  of  a  beautiful  girl  he 
had  been  redeemed  from  a  world  of  misery  and  tor- 
ture, the  world  of  external  things  into  which  he  had 
come  a  stranger,  by  which  he  had  been  tormented. 
He  looked  back  at  a  kind  of  vision  of  himself  seen 
as  he  was  a  year  before,  a  pitiable  creature  burning 
and  twisting  on  the  hot  coals  of  the  pit,  crying 
lamentably  to  the  laughing  bystanders  for  but  one 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

drop  of  cold  water  wherewith  to  cool  his  tongue. 
He  confessed  to  himself,  with  some  contempt,  that 
he  had  been  a  social  being,  depending  for  his  happi- 
ness on  the  goodwill  of  others;  he  had  tried  hard 
to  write,  chiefly,  it  was  true,  from  love  of  the  art, 
but  a  little  from  a  social  motive.  He  had  imagined 
that  a  written  book  and  the  praise  of  responsible 
journals  would  ensure  him  the  respect  of  the  county 
people.  It  was  a  quaint  idea,  and  he  saw  the 
lamentable  fallacies  naked;  in  the  first  place,  a 
painstaking  artist  in  words  was  not  respected  by 
the  respectable;  secondly,  books  should  not  be 
written  with  the  object  of  gaining  the  goodwill  of 
the  landed  and  commercial  interests;  thirdly  and 
chiefly,  no  man  should  in  any  way  depend  on  an- 
other. 

From  this  utter  darkness,  from  danger  of  mad- 
ness, the  ever  dear  and  sweet  Annie  had  rescued 
him.  Very  beautifully  and  fitly,  as  Lucian  thought, 
she  had  done  her  work  without  any  desire  to  benefit 
him,  she  had  simply  willed  to  gratify  her  own  pas- 
sion, and  in  doing  this  had  handed  to  him  the  price- 
less secret.  And  he,  on  his  side,  had  reversed  the 
process;  merely  to  make  himself  a  splendid  offer- 
ing for  the  acceptance  of  his  sweetheart,  he  had  cast 
aside  the  vain  world,  and  had  found  the  truth, 
which  now  remained  with  him,  precious  and  endur- 
ing. 

And  since  the  news  of  the  marriage  he  found 
152 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

that  his  worship  of  her  had  by  no  means  vanished; 
rather  in  his  heart  was  the  eternal  treasure  of  a 
happy  love,  untarnished  and  spotless;  it  would  be 
like  a  mirror  of  gold  without  alloy,  bright  and 
lustrous  forever.  For  Lucian,  it  was  no  defect  in 
the  woman  that  she  was  desirous  and  faithless;  he 
had  not  conceived  an  affection  for  certain  moral  or 
intellectual  accidents,  but  for  the  very  woman. 
Guided  by  the  self-evident  axiom  that  humanity  is 
to  be  judged  by  literature,  and  not  literature  by 
humanity,  he  detected  the  analogy  between  Lycidas 
and  Annie.  Only  the  dullard  would  object  to  the 
nauseous  cant  of  the  one,  or  to  the  indiscretions  of 
the  other.  A  sober  critic  might  say  that  the  man 
who  could  generalise  Herbert  and  Laud,  Donne 
and  Herrick,  Sanderson  and  Juxon,  Hammond  and 
Lancelot  Andrewes  into  'our  corrupted  clergy'  must 
be  either  an  imbecile  or  a  scoundrel,  or  probably 
both.  The  judgment  would  be  perfectly  true,  but 
as  a  criticism  of  Lycidas  it  would  be  a  piece  of 
folly.  In  the  case  of  the  woman  one  could  imagine 
the  attitude  of  the  conventional  lover;  of  the  cheva- 
lier who,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  'reverences 
and  respects'  all  women,  and  coming  home  early  in 
the  morning  writes  a  leading  article  on  St.  English 
Girl.  Lucian,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  profoundly 
grateful  to  the  delicious  Annie,  because  she  had  at 
precisely  the  right  moment  voluntarily  removed  her 
image  from  his  way.  He  confessed  to  himself 

153 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

that,  latterly,  he  had  a  little  dreaded  her  return  as 
an  interruption;  he  had  shivered  at  the  thought 
that  their  relations  would  become  what  was  so  ter- 
ribly called  an  'intrigue'  or  'affair.'  There  would  be 
all  the  threadbare  and  common  stratagems,  the  vul- 
garity of  secret  assignations,  and  an  atmosphere 
suggesting  the  period  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore  and 
Lord  Byron  and  'segars.'  Lucian  had  been  afraid 
of  all  this ;  he  had  feared  lest  love  itself  should  de- 
stroy love. 

He  considered  that  now,  freed  from  the  torment 
of  the  body,  leaving  untasted  the  green  water  that 
makes  thirst  more  burning,  he  was  perfectly  in- 
itiated in  the  true  knowledge  of  the  splendid  and 
glorious  love.  There  seemed  to  him  a  monstrous 
paradox  in  the  assertion  that  there  could  be  no  true 
love  without  a  corporal  presence  of  the  beloved; 
even  the  popular  sayings  of  'absence  makes  the 
heart  grow  fonder,'  and  'familiarity  breeds  con- 
tempt,' witnessed  to  the  contrary.  He  thought, 
sighing,  and  with  compassion,  of  the  manner  in 
which  men  are  continually  led  astray  by  the  cheat 
of  the  senses.  In  order  that  the  unborn  might 
still  be  added  to  the  born,  nature  had  inspired  men 
with  the  wild  delusion  that  the  bodily  companionship 
of  the  lover  and  the  beloved  was  desirable  above  all 
things,  and  so,  by  the  false  show  of  pleasure,  the 
human  race  was  chained  to  vanity,  and  doomed  to 
an  eternal  thirst  for  the  non-existent. 

154 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Again  and  again  he  gave  thanks  for  his  own  es- 
cape; he  had  been  set  free  from  a  life  of  vice  and 
sin  and  folly,  from  all  the  dangers  and  illusions  that 
are  most  dreaded  by  the  wise.  He  laughed  as  he 
remembered  what  would  be  the  common  view  of 
the  situation.  An  ordinary  lover  would  suffer  all 
the  sting  of  sorrow  and  contempt;  there  would  be 
grief  for  a  lost  mistress,  and  rage  at  her  faithless- 
ness, and  hate  in  the  heart;  one  foolish  passion  driv- 
ing on  another,  and  driving  the  man  to  ruin.  For 
what  would  be  commonly  called  the  real  woman  he 
now  cared  nothing;  if  he  had  heard  that  she  had 
died  in  her  farm  in  Utter  Gwent,  he  would  have 
experienced  only  a  passing  sorrow,  such  as  he  might 
feel  at  the  death  of  any  one  he  had  once  known. 
But  he  did  not  think  of  the  young  farmer's  wife  as 
the  real  Annie;  he  did  not  think  of  the  frost-bitten 
leaves  in  winter  as  the  real  rose.  Indeed,  the  life 
of  many  reminded  him  of  the  flowers;  perhaps  more 
especially  of  those  flowers  which  to  all  appearance 
are  for  many  years  but  dull  and  dusty  clumps  of 
green,  and  suddenly,  in  one  night,  burst  into  the 
flame  of  blossom,  and  fill  all  the  misty  lawns  with 
odour:  till  the  morning.  It  was  in  that  night  that 
the  flower  lived,  not  through  the  long  unprofitable 
years;  and,  in  like  manner,  many  human  lives,  he 
thought,  were  born  in  the  evening  and  dead  before 
the  coming  of  day.  But  he  had  preserved  the 
precious  flower  in  all  its  glory,  not  suffering  it  to 

'55 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

wither  in  the  hard  light,  but  keeping  it  in  a  secret 
place,  where  it  could  never  be  destroyed.  Truly 
now,  and  for  the  first  time,  he  possessed  Annie,  as 
a  man  possesses  gold  which  he  has  dug  from  the 
rock  and  purged  of  its  baseness. 

He  was  musing  over  these  things  when  a  piece 
of  news,  very  strange  and  unexpected,  arrived  at 
the  rectory.  A  distant,  almost  a  mythical  relative, 
known  from  childhood  as  'Cousin  Edward  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight,'  had  died,  and  by  some  strange  freak 
had  left  Lucian  two  thousand  pounds.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  give  his  father  five  hundred  pounds,  and 
the  rector  on  his  side  forgot  for  a  couple  of  days 
to  lean  his  head  on  his  hand.  From  the  rest  of  the 
capital,  which  was  well  invested,  Lucian  found 
he  would  derive  something  between  sixty  and 
seventy  pounds  a  year,  and  his  old  desires  for 
literature  and  a  refuge  in  the  murmuring  streets  re- 
turned to  him.  He  longed  to  be  free  from  the  in- 
cantations that  surrounded  him  in  the  country,  to 
work  and  live  in  a  new  atmosphere;  and  so,  with 
many  good  wishes  from  his  father,  he  came  to  the 
retreat  in  the  waste  places  of  London. 

He  was  in  high  spirits  when  he  found  the  square, 
clean  room,  horribly  furnished,  in  the  by-street  that 
branched  from  the  main  road,  and  advanced  in  an 
unlovely  sweep  to  the  mud  pits  and  the  desolation 
that  was  neither  town  nor  country.  On  every  side 
monotonous  grey  streets,  each  house  the  replica  of 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

its  neighbour,  to  the  east  an  unexplored  wilderness, 
north  and  west  and  south  the  brickfields  and  market- 
gardens,  everywhere  the  ruins  of  the  country,  the 
tracks  where  sweet  lanes  had  been,  gangrened 
stumps  of  trees,  the  relics  of  hedges,  here  and  there 
an  oak  stripped  of  its  bark,  white  and  haggard  and 
leprous  like  a  corpse.  And  the  air  seemed  always 
grey,  and  the  smoke  from  the  brickfields  was  grey. 

At  first  he  scarcely  realised  the  quarter  into  which 
chance  had  led  him.  His  only  thought  was  of  the 
great  adventure  of  letters  in  which  he  proposed  to 
engage,  and  his  first  glance  round  his  'bed-sitting- 
room'  showed  him  that  there  was  no  piece  of  furni- 
ture suitable  for  his  purpose.  The  table,  like  the 
rest  of  the  suite,  was  of  bird's-eye  maple;  but  the 
maker  seemed  to  have  penetrated  the  druidic  secret 
of  the  rocking-stone,  the  thing  was  in  a  state  of  un- 
stable equilibrium  perpetually.  For  some  days  he 
wandered  through  the  streets,  inspecting  the  second- 
hand furniture  shops,  and  at  last,  in  a  forlorn  by- 
way, found  an  old  Japanese  bureau,  dishonoured 
and  forlorn,  standing  amongst  rusty  bedsteads, 
sorry  china,  and  all  the  refuse  of  homes  dead  and 
desolate.  The  bureau  pleased  him  in  spite  of  its 
grime  and  grease  and  dirt.  Inlaid  mother-of-pearl, 
the  gleam  of  lacquer  dragons  in  red  gold,  and  hints 
of  curious  design  shone  through  the  film  of  neglect 
and  ill-usage,  and  when  the  woman  of  the  shop 
showed  him  the  drawers  and  well  and  pigeon-holes, 

157 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  saw  that  it  would  be  an  instrument  for  his 
studies. 

The  bureau  was  carried  to  his  room  and  replaced 
the  'bird's-eye'  table  under  the  gas-jet.  As  Lucian 
arranged  what  papers  he  had  accumulated:  the 
sketches  of  hopeless  experiments,  shreds  and  tatters 
of  stories  begun  but  never  completed,  outlines  of 
plots,  two  or  three  note-books  scribbled  through 
and  through  with  impressions  of  the  abandoned 
hills,  he  felt  a  thrill  of  exaltation  at  the  prospect  of 
work  to  be  accomplished,  of  a  new  world  all  open 
before  him. 

He  set  out  on  the  adventure  with  a  fury  of  en- 
thusiasm; his  last  thought  at  night  when  all  the 
maze  of  streets  was  empty  and  silent  was  of  the 
problem,  and  his  dreams  ran  on  phrases,  and  when 
he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  was  eager  to  get  back 
to  his  desk.  He  immersed  himself  in  a  minute,  al- 
most ia  microscopic  analysis  of  fine  literature.  It  was 
no  longer  enough,  as  in  the  old  days,  to  feel  the 
charm  and  incantation  of  a  line  or  a  word;  he 
wished  to  penetrate  the  secret,  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  wonderful  suggestion,  all  apart  from 
the  sense,  that  seemed  to  him  the  differentia  of 
literature,  as  distinguished  from  the  long  follies  of 
'character-drawing,'  'psychological  analysis,'  and  all 
the  stuff  that  went  to  make  the  three-volume  novel 
of  commerce. 

He  found  himself  curiously  strengthened  by  the 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

change  from  the  hills  to  the  streets.  There  could 
be  no  doubt,  he  thought,  that  living  a  lonely  life, 
interested  only  in  himself  and  his  own  thoughts,  he 
had  become  in  a  measure  inhuman.  The  form  of 
external  things,  black  depths  in  woods,  pools  in 
lonely  places,  those  still  valleys  curtained  by  hills 
on  every  side,  sounding  always  with  the  ripple  of 
their  brooks,  had  become  to  him  an  influence  like 
that  of  a  drug,  giving  a  certain  peculiar  colour  and 
outline  to  his  thoughts.  And  from  early  boyhood 
there  had  been  another  strange  flavour  in  his  life, 
the  dream  of  the  old  Roman  world,  those  curious 
impressions  that  he  had  gathered  from  the  white 
walls  of  Caermaen,  and  from  the  looming  bastions 
of  the  fort.  It  was  in  reality  the  subconscious 
fancies  of  many  years  that  had  rebuilt  the  golden 
city,  and  had  shown  him  the  vine-trellis  and  the 
marbles  and  the  sunlight  in  the  garden  of  Aval- 
launius.  And  the  rapture  of  love  had  made  it  all 
so  vivid  and  warm  with  life,  that  even  now,  when 
he  let  his  pen  drop,  the  rich  noise  of  the  tavern 
and  the  chant  of  the  theatre  sounded  above  the  mur- 
mur of  the  streets.  Looking  back,  it  was  as  much 
a  part  of  his  life  as  his  schooldays,  and  the  tessel- 
lated pavements  were  as  real  as  the  square  of  faded 
carpet  beneath  his  feet. 

But  he  felt  that  he  had  escaped.  He  could  now 
survey  those  splendid  and  lovely  visions  from  with- 
out, as  if  he  read  of  opium  dreams,  and  he  no  longer 

159 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

dreaded  a  weird  suggestion  that  had  once  beset  him, 
that  his  very  soul  was  being  moulded  into  the  hills, 
and  passing  into  the  black  mirror  of  still  water- 
pools.  He  had  taken  refuge  in  the  streets,  in  the 
harbour  of  a  modern  suburb,  from  the  vague, 
dreaded  magic  that  had  charmed  his  life.  When- 
ever he  felt  inclined  to  listen  to  the  old  wood- 
whisper  or  to  the  singing  of  the  fauns  he  bent  more 
earnestly  over  his  work,  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
incantation. 

In  the  curious  labour  of  the  bureau  he  found  re- 
freshment that  was  continually  renewed.  He  ex- 
perienced again,  and  with  a  far  more  violent  im- 
pulse, the  enthusiasm  that  had  attended  the  writ- 
ing of  his  book  a  year  or  two  before,  and  so,  per- 
haps, passed  from  one  drug  to  another.  It  was, 
indeed,  with  something  of  rapture  that  he  imagined 
the  great  procession  of  years  all  to  be  devoted  to 
the  intimate  analysis  of  words,  to  the  construction 
of  the  sentence,  as  if  it  were  a  piece  of  jewellery  or 
mosaic. 

Sometimes,  in  the  pauses  of  the  work,  he  would 
pace  up  and  down  his  cell,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow now  and  again  and  gazing  for  an  instant  into 
the  melancholy  street.  As  the  year  advanced  the 
days  grew  more  and  more  misty,  and  he  found  him- 
self the  inhabitant  of  a  little  island  wreathed  about 
with  the  waves  of  a  white  and  solemn  sea.  In  the 
afternoon  the  fog  would  grow  denser,  shutting  out 

1 60 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

not  only  sight  but  sound;  the  shriek  of  the  garden 
gates,  the  jangling  of  the  tram-bell  echoed  as  if 
from  far  away.  Then  there  were  days  of  heavy 
incessant  rain;  he  could  see  a  grey  drifting  sky  and 
the  drops  splashing  in  the  street,  and  the  houses  all 
dripping  and  saddened  with  wet. 

He  cured  himself  of  one  great  aversion.  He  was 
no  longer  nauseated  at  the  sight  of  a  story  begun  and 
left  unfinished.  Formerly,  even  when  an  idea  rose 
in  his  mind  bright  and  wonderful,  he  had  always  ap- 
proached the  paper  with  a  feeling  of  sickness  and 
dislike,  remembering  all  the  hopeless  beginnings  he 
had  made.  But  now  he  understood  that  to  begin  a 
romance  was  almost  a  separate  and  special  art,  a 
thing  apart  from  the  story,  to  be  practised  with  sed- 
ulous care.  Whenever  an  opening  scene  occurred  to 
him  he  noted  it  roughly  in  a  book,  and  he  devoted 
many  long  winter  evenings  to  the  elaboration  of  these 
beginnings.  Sometimes  the  first  impression  would 
yield  only  a  paragraph  or  a  sentence,  and  once  or 
twice  but  a  splendid  and  sonorous  word,  which 
seemed  to  Lucian  all  dim  and  rich  with  unsurmised 
adventure.  But  often  he  was  able  to  write  three 
or  four  vivid  pages,  studying  above  all  things  the 
hint  and  significance  of  the  words  and  actions, 
striving  to  work  into  the  lines  the  atmosphere  of 
expectation  and  promise,  and  the  murmur  of  won- 
derful events  to  come. 

In  this  one  department  of  his  task  the  labour 
161 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

seemed  almost  endless.  He  would  finish  a  few 
pages  and  then  rewrite  them,  using  the  same  inci- 
dent and  nearly  the  same  words,  but  altering  that 
indefinite  something  which  is  scarcely  so  much  style 
as  manner,  or  atmosphere.  He  was  astonished  at 
the  enormous  change  that  was  thus  effected,  and 
often,  though  he  himself  had  done  the  work,  he 
could  scarcely  describe  in  words  how  it  was  done. 
But  it  was  clear  that  in  this  art  of  manner,  or  sug- 
gestion, lay  all  the  chief  secrets  of  literature,  that 
by  it  all  the  great  miracles  were  performed.  Clearly 
it  was  not  style,  for  style  in  itself  was  untranslat- 
able, but  it  was  that  high  theurgic  magic  that  made 
the  English  Don  Quixote,  roughly  traduced  by  some 
Jervas,  perhaps  the  best  of  all  English  books.  And 
it  was  the  same  element  that  made  the  journey  of 
Roderick  Random  to  London,  ostensibly  a  narrative 
of  coarse  jokes  and  common  experiences  and  bur- 
lesque manners,  told  in  no  very  choice  diction,  essen- 
tially a  wonderful  vision  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
carrying  to  one's  very  nostrils  the  aroma  of  the 
Great  North  Road  iron-bound  under  black  frost, 
darkened  beneath  shuddering  woods,  haunted  by 
highwaymen,  with  an  adventure  waiting  beyond 
every  turn,  and  great  old  echoing  inns  in  the  midst 
of  lonely  winter  lands. 

It  was  this  magic  that  Lucian  sought  for  his  open- 
ing chapters ;  he  tried  to  find  that  quality  that  gives 
to  words  something  beyond  their  sound  and  beyond 

162 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

their  meaning,  that  in  the  first  lines  of  a  book  should 
whisper  things  unintelligible  but  all  significant. 
Often  he  worked  for  many  hours  without  success, 
and  the  grim  wet  dawn  once  found  him  still  search- 
ing for  hieroglyphic  sentences,  for  words  mystical, 
symbolic.  On  the  shelves,  in  the  upper  part  of  his 
bureau,  he  had  placed  the  books  which,  however 
various  as  to  matter,  seemed  to  have  a  part  in  this 
curious  quality  of  suggestion,  and  in  that  sphere 
which  might  almost  be  called  supernatural.  To 
these  books  he  often  had  recourse,  when  further 
effort  appeared  altogether  hopeless,  and  certain 
pages  in  Coleridge  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe  had  the 
power  of  holding  him  in  a  trance  of  delight,  subject 
to  emotions  and  impressions  which  he  knew  to  trans- 
cend altogether  the  realm  of  the  formal  understand- 
ing. Such  lines  as: 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over ; 

had  for  Lucian  more  than  the  potency  of  a  drug, 
lulling  him  into  a  splendid  waking-sleep,  every  word 
being  a  supreme  incantation.  And  it  was  not  only 
his  mind  that  was  charmed  by  such  passages,  for 
he  felt  at  the  same  time  a  strange  and  delicious 
bodily  languor  that  held  him  motionless,  without 
the  desire  or  power  to  stir  from  his  seat.  And 

163 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

there  were  certain  phrases  in  Kubla  Khan  that  had 
such  a  magic  that  he  would  sometimes  wake  up,  as 
it  were,  to  the  consciousness  that  he  had  been  lying 
on  the  bed  or  sitting  in  the  chair  by  the  bureau,  re- 
peating a  single  line  over  and  over  again  for  two  or 
three  hours.  Yet  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  he 
had  not  been  really  asleep ;  a  little  effort  recalled  a 
constant  impression  of  the  wall-paper,  with  its  pink 
flowers  on  a  buff  ground,  and  the  muslin-curtained 
window,  letting  in  the  grey  winter  light.  He  had 
been  some  seven  months  in  London  when  this  odd 
experience  first  occurred  to  him.  The  day  opened 
dreary  and  cold  and  clear,  with  a  gusty  and  restless 
wind  whirling  round  the  corner  of  the  street,  and 
lifting  the  dead  leaves  and  scraps  of  paper  that  lit- 
tered the  roadway  into  eddying  mounting  circles, 
as  if  a  storm  of  black  rain  were  to  come.  Lucian 
had  sat  late  the  night  before,  and  rose  in  the  morn- 
ing feeling  weary  and  listless  and  heavy-headed. 
While  he  dressed,  his  legs  dragged  him  as  with 
weights,  and  he  staggered  and  nearly  fell  in  bend- 
ing down  to  the  mat  outside  for  his  tea-tray.  He 
lit  the  spirit  lamp  on  the  hearth  with  shaking,  un- 
steady hands,  and  could  scarcely  pour  out  the  tea 
when  it  was  ready.  A  delicate  cup  of  tea  was  one 
of  his  few  luxuries;  he  was  fond  of  the  strange 
flavour  of  the  green  leaf,  and  this  morning  he  drank 
the  straw-coloured  liquid  eagerly,  hoping  it  would 
disperse  the  cloud  of  langour.  He  tried  his  best 

164 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

to  coerce  himself  into  the  sense  of  vigour  and  en- 
joyment with  which  he  usually  began  the  day,  walk- 
ing briskly  up  and  down  and  arranging  his  papers 
in  order.  But  he  could  not  free  himself  from  de- 
pression; even  as  he  opened  the  dear  bureau  a  wave 
of  melancholy  came  upon  him,  and  he  began  to  ask 
himself  whether  he  were  not  pursuing  a  vain  dream, 
searching  for  treasures  that  had  no  existence.  He 
drew  out  his  cousin's  letter  and  read  it  again,  sadly 
enough.  After  all  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth 
in  what  she  said;  he  had  'overrated'  his  powers,  he 
had  no  friends,  no  real  education.  He  began  to 
count  up  the  months  since  he  had  come  to  London; 
he  had  received  his  two  thousand  pounds  in  March, 
and  in  May  he  had  said  good-bye  to  the  woods  and 
to  the  dear  and  friendly  paths.  May,  June,  July, 
August,  September,  October,  November,  and  half 
of  December  had  gone  by,  and  what  had  he  to  show? 
Nothing  but  the  experiment,  the  attempt,  futile 
scribblings  which  had  no  end  nor  shining  purpose. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  desk  that  he  could  produce 
as  evidence  of  his  capacity,  no  fragment  even  of 
accomplishment.  It  was  a  thought  of  intense  bitter- 
ness, but  it  seemed  as  if  the  barbarians  were  in  the 
right — a  place  in  a  house  of  business  would  have 
been  more  suitable.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his 
desk  overwhelmed  with  the  severity  of  his  own 
judgment.  He  tried  to  comfort  himself  again  by 
the  thought  of  all  the  hours  of  happy  enthusiasm 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  had  spent  amongst  his  papers,  working  for  a 
great  idea  with  infinite  patience.  He  recalled  to 
mind  something  that  he  had  always  tried  to  keep 
in  the  background  of  his  hopes,  the  foundation  stone 
of  his  life,  which  he  had  hidden  out  of  sight.  Deep 
in  his  heart  was  the  hope  that  he  might  one  day 
write  a  valiant  book;  he  scarcely  dared  to  entertain 
the  aspiration,  he  felt  his  incapacity  too  deeply,  but 
yet  this  longing  was  the  foundation  of  all  his  painful 
and  patient  effort.  This  he  had  proposed  in  secret 
to  himself,  that  if  he  laboured  without  ceasing,  with- 
out tiring,  he  might  produce  something  which  would 
at  all  events  be  art,  which  would  stand  wholly  apart 
from  the  objects  shaped  like  books,  printed  with 
printers'  ink,  and  called  by  the  name  of  books  that 
he  had  read.  Giotto,  he  knew,  was  a  painter,  and 
the  man  who  imitated  walnut-wood  on  the  deal  doors 
opposite  was  a  painter,  and  he  had  wished  to  be  a 
very  humble  pupil  in  the  class  of  the  former.  It 
was  better,  he  thought,  to  fail  in  attempting  exquis- 
ite things  than  to  succeed  in  the  department  of  the 
utterly  contemptible ;  he  had  vowed  he  would  be  the 
dunce  of  Cervantes's  school  rather  than  top-boy  in 
the  academy  of  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat  and  Millicent's 
Marriage.  And  with  this  purpose  he  had  devoted 
himself  to  laborious  and  joyous  years,  so  that  how- 
ever mean  his  capacity,  the  pains  should  not  be  want- 
ing. He  tried  now  to  rouse  himself  from  a  growing 
misery  by  the  recollection  of  this  high  aim,  but  it 

166 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

all  seemed  hopeless  vanity.  He  looked  out  into 
the  grey  street,  and  it  stood  a  symbol  of  his  life, 
chill  and  dreary  and  grey  and  vexed  with  a  horrible 
wind.  There  were  the  dull  inhabitants  of  the  quar- 
ter going  about  their  common  business;  a  man  was 
crying  'mackerel'  in  a  doleful  voice,  slowly  passing 
up  the  street,  and  staring  into  the  white-curtained 
'parlours,'  searching  for  the  face  of  a  purchaser 
behind  the  india-rubber  plants,  stuffed  birds,  and 
piles  of  gaujly  gilt  books  that  adorned  the  windows. 
One  of  the  blistered  doors  over  the  way  banged, 
and  a  woman  came  scurrying  out  on  some  errand, 
and  the  garden  gate  shrieked  two  melancholy  notes 
as  she  opened  it  and  let  it  swing  back  after  her. 
The  little  patches  called  gardens  were  mostly  un- 
tilled,  uncared  for,  squares  of  slimy  moss,  dotted 
with  clumps  of  coarse  ugly  grass,  but  here  and  there 
were  the  blackened  and  rotting  remains  of  sun- 
flowers and  marigolds.  And  beyond,  he  knew, 
stretched  the  labyrinth  of  streets  more  or  less 
squalid,  but  all  grey  and  dull,  and  behind  were  the 
mud  pits  and  the  steaming  heaps  of  yellowish  bricks, 
and  to  the  north  was  a  great  wide  cold  waste,  tree- 
less, desolate,  swept  by  bitter  wind.  It  was  all  like 
his  own  life,  he  said  again  to  himself,  a  maze  of 
unprofitable  dreariness  and  desolation,  and  his  mind 
grew  as  black  and  hopeless  as  the  winter  sky.  The 
morning  went  thus  dismally  till  twelve  o'clock,  and 
he  put  on  his  hat  and  great-coat.  He  always  went 

167 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

out  for  an  hour  every  day  between  twelve  and  one; 
the  exercise  was  a  necessity,  and  the  landlady  made 
his  bed  in  the  interval.  The  wind  blew  the  smoke 
from  the  chimneys  into  his  face  as  he  shut  the  door, 
and  with  the  acrid  smoke  came  the  prevailing  odour 
of  the  street,  a  blend  of  cabbage-water  and  burnt 
bones  and  the  faint  sickly  vapour  from  the  brick- 
fields. Lucian  walked  mechanically  for  the  hour, 
going  eastward,  along  the  main  road.  The  wind 
pierced  him,  and  the  dust  was  blinding,  and  the 
dreariness  of  the  street  increased  his  misery.  The 
row  of  common  shops,  full  of  common  things,  the 
blatant  public-houses,  the  Independent  chapel,  a 
horrible  stucco  parody  of  a  Greek  temple  with  a 
facade  of  hideous  columns  that  was  a  nightmare, 
villas  like  smug  Pharisees,  shops  again,  a  church  in 
cheap  Gothic,  an  old  garden  blasted  and  riven  by 
the  builder,  these  were  the  pictures  of  the  way. 
When  he  got  home  again  he  flung  himself  on  the 
bed,  and  lay  there  stupidly  till  sheer  hunger  roused 
him.  He  ate  a  hunch  of  bread  and  drank  some 
water,  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room, 
wondering  whether  there  were  no  escape  from  de- 
spair. Writing  seemed  quite  impossible,  and  hardly 
knowing  what  he  did  he  opened  his  bureau  and  took 
out  a  book  from  the  shelves.  As  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  page  the  air  grew  dark  and  heavy  as  night,  and 
the  wind  wailed  suddenly,  loudly,  terribly. 

'By  woman  wailing  for  her  Demon  lover.'     The 
168 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

words  were  on  his  lips  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again. 
A  broad  band  of  pale  clear  light  was  shining  into 
the  room,  and  when  he  looked  out  of  the  window  he 
saw  the  road  all  brightened  by  glittering  pools  of 
water,  and  as  the  last  drops  of  the  rain-storm 
starred  these  mirrors  the  sun  sank  into  the  wrack. 
Lucian  gazed  about  him,  perplexed,  till  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  clock  above  his  empty  hearth.  He  had  been 
sitting,  motionless,  for  nearly  two  hours  without  any 
sense  of  the  passage  of  time,  and  without  ceasing 
he  had  murmured  those  words  as  he  dreamed  an  end- 
less wonderful  story.  He  experienced  somewhat 
the  sensations  of  Coleridge  himself;  strange,  amaz- 
ing, ineffable  things  seemed  to  have  been  presented 
to  him,  not  in  the  form  of  the  idea,  but  actually 
and  materially,  but  he  was  less  fortunate  than  Cole- 
ridge in  that  he  could  not,  even  vaguely,  image  to 
himself  what  he  had  seen.  Yet  when  he  searched 
his  mind  he  knew  that  the  consciousness  of  the  room 
in  which  he  sat  had  never  left  him;  he  had  seen  the 
thick  darkness  gather,  and  had  heard  the  whirl  of 
rain  hissing  through  the  air.  Windows  had  been 
shut  down  with  a  crash,  he  had  noted  the  pattering 
footsteps  of  people  running  to  shelter,  the  landlady's 
voice  crying  to  some  one  to  look  at  the  rain  coming 
in  under  the  door.  It  was  like  peering  into  some 
old  bituminous  picture,  one  could  see  at  last  that 
the  mere  blackness  resolved  itself  into  the  likeness 
of  trees  and  rocks  and  travellers.  And  against  this 

169 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

background  of  his  room,  and  the  storm,  and  the 
noises  of  the  street,  his  vision  stood  out  illuminated, 
he  felt  he  had  descended  to  the  very  depths,  into 
the  caverns  that  are  hollowed  beneath  the  soul. 
He  tried  vainly  to  record  the  history  of  his  impres- 
sions ;  the  symbols  remained  in  his  memory,  but  the 
meaning  was  all  conjecture. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  could 
scarcely  understand  or  realise  the  bitter  depression 
of  the  preceding  day.  He  found  it  had  all  van- 
ished away  and  had  been  succeeded  by  an  intense  ex- 
altation. Afterwards,  when  at  rare  intervals  he 
experienced  the  same  strange  possession  of  the  con- 
sciousness, he  found  this  to  be  the  invariable  result, 
the  hour  of  vision  was  always  succeeded  by  a  feel- 
ing of  delight,  by  sensations  of  heightened  and  in- 
tensified powers.  On  that  bright  December  day 
after  the  storm  he  rose  joyously,  and  set  about  the 
labour  of  the  bureau  with  the  assurance  of  success, 
almost  with  the  hope  of  the  formidable  difficulties 
to  be  overcome.  He  had  long  busied  himself  with 
those  curious  researches  which  Poe  has  indicated  in 
the  Philosophy  of  Composition,  and  many  hours 
had  been  spent  in  analysing  the  singular  effects  which 
may  be  produced  by  the  sound  and  resonance  of 
words.  But  he  had  been  struck  by  the  thought  that 
in  the  finest  literature  there  were  more  subtle  tones 
than  the  loud  and  insistent  music  of  'never  more,' 
and  he  endeavoured  to  find  the  secret  of  those  pages 

170 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  sentences  which  spoke,  less  directly,  and  less  ob- 
viously, to  the  soul  rather  than  to  the  ear,  being 
filled  with  a  certain  grave  melody  and  the  sensation 
of  singing  voices.  It  was  admirable,  no  doubt,  to 
write  phrases  that  showed  at  a  glance  their  designed 
rhythm,  and  rang  with  sonorous  words,  but  he 
dreamed  of  a  prose  in  which  the  music  should  be 
less  explicit,  of  neumes  rather  than  notes.  He  was 
astonished  that  morning  at  his  own  fortune  and 
facility;  he  succeeded  in  covering  a  page  of  ruled 
paper  wholly  to  his  satisfaction,  and  the  sentences, 
when  he  read  them  out,  appeared  to  suggest  a  weird 
elusive  chanting,  exquisite  but  almost  imperceptible, 
like  the  echo  of  the  plainsong  reverberated  from 
the  vault  of  a  monastic  church. 

He  thought  that  such  happy  mornings  well  re- 
paid him  for  the  anguish  of  depression  which  he 
sometimes  had  to  suffer,  and  for  the  strange  experi- 
ence of  'possession'  recurring  at  rare  intervals,  and 
usually  after  many  weeks  of  severe  diet.  His  in- 
come, he  found,  amounted  to  about  sixty-five  pounds 
a  year,  and  he  lived  for  weeks  at  a  time  on  fifteen 
shillings  a  week.  During  these  austere  periods  his 
only  food  was  bread,  at  the  rate  of  a  loaf  a  day; 
but  he  drank  huge  draughts  of  green  tea,  and 
smoked  a  black  tobacco,  which  seemed  to  him  a 
more  potent  mother  of  thought  than  any  drug  from 
the  scented  East.  'I  hope  you  go  to  some  nice  place 
for  dinner,'  wrote  his  cousin ;  'there  used  to  be  some 

171 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

excellent  eating-houses  in  London  where  one  could 
get  a  good  cut  from  the  joint,  with  plenty  of  gravy, 
and  a  boiled  potato,  for  a  shilling.  Aunt  Mary 
writes  that  you  should  try  Mr.  Jones's  in  Water 
Street,  Islington,  whose  father  came  from  near 
Caermaen,  and  was  always  most  comfortable  in  her 
day.  I  daresay  the  walk  there  would  do  you  good. 
It  is  such  a  pity  you  smoke  that  horrid  tobacco.  I 
had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Dolly  (Jane  Diggs,  who 
married  your  cousin  John  Dolly)  the  other  day,  and 
she  said  they  would  have  been  delighted  to  take  you 
for  only  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  for  the  sake  of 
the  family  if  you  had  not  been  a  smoker.  She 
told  me  to  ask  you  if  you  had  ever  seen  a  horse  or 
a  dog  smoking  tobacco.  They  are  such  nice,  com- 
fortable people,  and  the  children  would  have  been 
company  for  you.  Johnnie,  who  used  to  be  such 
a  dear  little  fellow,  has  just  gone  into  an  office  in 
the  City,  and  seems  to  have  excellent  prospects. 
How  I  wish,  my  dear  Lucian,  that  you  could  do 
something  in  the  same  way.  Don't  forget  Mr. 
Jones's  in  Water  Street,  and  you  might  mention 
your  name  to  him.' 

Lucian  never  troubled  Mr.  Jones;  but  these 
letters  of  his  cousin's  always  refreshed  him  by  the 
force  of  contrast.  He  tried  to  imagine  himself  a 
part  of  the  Dolly  family,  going  dutifully  every 
morning  to  the  City  on  the  'bus,  and  returning  in 
the  evening  for  high  tea.  He  could  conceive  the 

172 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

fine  odour  of  hot  roast  beef  hanging  about  the  deco- 
rous house  on  Sunday  afternoons,  papa  asleep  in 
the  dining-room,  mamma  lying  down,  and  the  chil- 
dren quite  good  and  happy  with  their  'Sunday 
books.'  In  the  evening,  after  supper,  one  read  the 
Quiver  till  bedtime.  Such  pictures  as  these  were  to 
Lucian  a  comfort  and  a  help,  a  remedy  against  de- 
spair. Often  when  he  felt  overwhelmed  by  the  dif- 
ficulty of  the  work  he  had  undertaken,  he  thought 
of  the  alternative  career,  and  was  strengthened. 

He  returned  again  and  again  to  that  desire  of  a 
prose  which  should  sound  faintly,  not  so  much  with 
an  audible  music,  but  with  the  memory  and  echo  of 
it.  In  the  night,  when  the  last  tram  had  gone  jan- 
gling by,  and  he  had  looked  out  and  seen  the  street 
all  wrapped  about  in  heavy  folds  of  the  mist,  he 
conducted  some  of  his  most  delicate  experiments. 
In  that  white  and  solitary  midnight  of  the  suburban 
street  he  experienced  the  curious  sense  of  being  on 
a  tower,  remote  and  apart  and  high  above  all  the 
troubles  of  the  earth.  The  gas  lamp,  which  was 
nearly  opposite,  shone  in  a  pale  halo  of  light,  and 
the  houses  themselves  were  merely  indistinct  marks 
and  shadows  amidst  that  palpable  whiteness,  shut- 
ting out  the  world  and  its  noises.  The  knowledge  of 
the  swarming  life  that  was  so  still,  though  it  sur- 
rounded him,  made  the  silence  seem  deeper  than  that 
of  the  mountains  before  the  dawn;  it  was  as  if  he 
alone  stirred  and  looked  out  amidst  a  host  sleeping 

'73 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

at  his  feet.  The  fog  came  in  by  the  open  window 
in  freezing  puffs,  and  as  Lucian  watched  he  noticed 
that  it  shook  and  wavered  like  the  sea,  tossing  up 
wreaths  and  drifts  across  the  pale  halo  of  the  lamp, 
and  these  vanishing,  others  succeeded.  It  was  as  if 
the  mist  passed  by  from  the  river  to  the  north,  as  if 
it  still  passed  by  in  the  silence. 

He  would  shut  his  window  gently,  and  sit  down 
in  his  lighted  room  with  all  the  consciousness  of  the 
white  advancing  shroud  upon  him.  It  was  then 
that  he  found  himself  in  the  mood  for  curious 
labours,  and  able  to  handle  with  some  touch  of  con- 
fidence the  more  exquisite  instruments  of  the  craft. 
He  sought  for  that  magic  by  which  all  the  glory 
and  glamour  of  mystic  chivalry  were  made  to  shine 
through  the  burlesque  and  gross  adventures  of  Don 
Quixote,  by  which  Hawthorne  had  lit  his  infernal 
Sabbath  fires,  and  fashioned  a  burning  aureole 
about  the  village  tragedy  of  the  Scarlet  Letter.  In 
Hawthorne  the  story  and  the  suggestion,  though 
quite  distinct  and  of  different  worlds,  were  rather 
parallel  than  opposed  to  one  another;  but  Cervantes 
had  done  a  stranger  thing.  One  read  of  Don 
Quixote,  beaten,  dirty,  and  ridiculous,  mistaking 
windmills  for  giants,  sheep  for  an  army;  but  the 
impression  was  of  the  enchanted  forest,  of  Avalon, 
of  the  San  Graal,  'far  in  the  spiritual  city.'  And 
Rabelais  showed  him,  beneath  the  letter,  the  Tour- 
ainian  sun  shining  on  the  hot  rock  above  Chinon,  on 

174 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  maze  of  narrow,  climbing  streets,  on  the  high- 
pitched,  gabled  roofs,  on  the  grey-blue  tourelles, 
pricking  upward  from  the  fantastic  labyrinth  of 
walls.  He  heard  the  sound  of  sonorous  plainsong 
from  the  monastic  choir,  of  gross  exuberant  gaiety 
from  the  rich  vineyards;  he  listened  to  the  eternal 
mystic  mirth  of  them  that  halted  in  the  pv.rple 
shadow  of  the  sorbier  by  the  white,  steep  road. 
The  gracious  and  ornate  chateaux  on  the  Loire  and 
the  Vienne  rose  fair  and  shining  to  confront  the  in- 
credible secrets  of  vast,  dim,  far-lifted  Gothic  naves, 
that  seemed  ready  to  take  the  great  deep,  and  float 
away  from  the  mist  and  dust  of  earthly  streets  to 
anchor  in  the  haven  of  the  clear  city  that  hath  foun- 
dations. The  rank  tale  of  the  garde-robe,  of  the 
farm-kitchen,  mingled  with  the  reasoned,  endless 
legend  of  the  schools,  with  luminous  Platonic  argu- 
ment; the  old  pomp  of  the  Middle  Ages  put  on  the 
robe  of  a  fresh  life.  There  was  a  smell  of  wine  and 
of  incense,  of  June  meadows  and  of  ancient  books, 
and  through  it  all  he  hearkened,  intent,  to  the  ex- 
ultation of  chiming  bells  ringing  for  a  new  feast  in 
a  new  land.  He  would  cover  pages  with  the  analy- 
sis of  these  marvels,  tracking  the  suggestion  con- 
cealed beneath  the  words,  and  yet  glowing  like  the 
golden  threads  in  a  robe  of  samite,  or  like  that  de- 
vice of  the  old  binders  by  which  a  vivid  picture  ap- 
peared on  the  shut  edges  of  a  book.  He  tried  to 
imitate  this  art,  to  summon  even  a  faint  shadow  of 

175 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  great  effect,  rewriting  a  page  of  Hawthorne, 
experimenting  and  changing  an  epithet  here  and 
there,  noting  how  sometimes  the  alteration  of  a 
trifling  word  would  plunge  a  whole  scene  into  dark- 
ness, as  if  one  of  those  blood-red  fires  had  instantly 
been  extinguished.  Sometimes,  for  severe  practice, 
he  attempted  to  construct  short  tales  in  the  manner 
of  this  or  that  master.  He  sighed  over  these  des- 
perate attempts,  over  the  clattering  pieces  of  mech- 
anism which  would  not  even  simulate  life;  but  he 
urged  himself  to  an  infinite  perseverance.  Through 
the  white  hours  he  worked  on  amidst  the  heap  and 
litter  of  papers;  books  and  manuscripts  overflowed 
from  the  bureau  to  the  floor;  and  if  he  looked  out 
he  saw  the  mist  still  pass  by,  still  passing  from  the 
river  to  the  north. 

It  was  not  till  the  winter  was  well  advanced  that 
he  began  at  all  to  explore  the  region  in  which  he 
lived.  Soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  grey  street  he 
had  taken  one  or  two  vague  walks,  hardly  noticing 
where  he  went  or  what  he  saw;  but  for  all  the  sum- 
mer he  had  shut  himself  in  his  room,  beholding 
nothing  but  the  form  and  colour  of  words.  For  his 
morning  walk  he  almost  invariably  chose  the  one 
direction,  going  along  the  Uxbridge  Road  towards 
Notting  Hill,  and  returning  by  the  same  monoton- 
ous thoroughfare.  Now,  however,  when  the  new 
year  was  beginning  its  dull  days,  he  began  to  di- 
verge occasionally  to  right  and  left,  sometimes  eat- 

176 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ing  his  luncheon  in  odd  corners,  in  the  bulging  par- 
lours of  eighteenth-century  taverns,  that  still 
fronted  the  surging  sea  of  modern  streets,  or  per- 
haps in  brand  new  'publics'  on  the  broken  borders 
of  the  brickfields,  smelling  of  the  clay  from  which 
they  had  swollen.  He  found  waste  by-places  be- 
hind railway  embankments  where  he  could  smoke 
his  pipe  sheltered  from  the  wind;  sometimes  there 
was  a  wooden  fence  by  an  old  pear-orchard  where  he 
sat  and  gazed  at  the  wet  desolation  of  the  market- 
gardens,  munching  a  few  currant  biscuits  by  way  of 
dinner.  As  he  went  farther  afield  x  sense  of  immen- 
sity slowly  grew  upon  him;  it  was  as  if,  from  the 
little  island  of  his  room,  that  one  friendly  place,  he 
pushed  out  into  the  grey  unknown,  into  a  city  that 
for  him  was  uninhabited  as  the  desert. 

He  came  back  to  his  cell  after  these  purposeless 
wanderings  always  with  a  sense  of  relief,  with  the 
thought  of  taking  refuge  from  grey.  As  he  lit  the 
gas  and  opened  the  desk  of  his  bureau  and  saw  the 
pile  of  papers  awaiting  him,  it  was  as  if  he  had 
passed  from  the  black  skies  and  the  stinging  wind 
and  the  dull  maze  of  the  suburb  into  all  the  warmth 
and  sunlight  and  violent  colour  of  the  south. 


177 


VI 

IT  was  in  this  winter  after  his  coming  to  the  grey 
street  that  Lucian  first  experienced  the  pains  of 
desolation.  He  had  all  his  life  known  the  de- 
lights of  solitude,  and  had  acquired  that  habit  of 
mind  which  makes  a  man  find  rich  company  on  the 
bare  hillside  and  leads  him  into  the  heart  of  the 
wood  to  meditate  by  the  dark  waterpools.  But 
now  in  the  blank  interval  when  he  was  forced  to 
shut  up  his  desk,  the  sense  of  loneliness  over- 
whelmed him  and  filled  him  with  unutterable  melan- 
choly. On  such  days  he  carried  about  with  him  an 
unceasing  gnawing  torment  in  his  breast;  the  anguish 
of  the  empty  page  awaiting  him  in  his  bureau,  and 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  worse  than  useless  to  at- 
tempt the  work.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
always  using  this  phrase  'the  work'  to  denote  the 
adventure  of  literature;  it  had  grown  in  his  mind 
to  all  the  austere  and  grave  significance  of  'the 
great  work'  on  the  lips  of  the  alchemists ;  it  included 
every  trifling  and  laborious  page  and  the  vague 
magnificent  fancies  that  sometimes  hovered  before 
him.  All  else  had  become  mere  byfplay,  unim- 
portant, trivial;  the  work  was  the  end,  and  the 
means  and  the  food  of  his  life — it  raised  him  up  in 

178 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  morning  to  renew  the  struggle,  it  was  the  symbol 
which  charmed  him  as  he  lay  down  at  night.  All 
through  the  hours  of  toil  at  the  bureau  he  was  en- 
chanted, and  when  he  went  out  and  explored  the 
unknown  coasts,  the  one  thought  allured  him,  and 
was  the  coloured  glass  between  his  eyes  and  the 
world.  Then  as  he  drew  nearer  home  his  steps 
would  quicken,  and  the  more  weary  and  grey  the 
walk,  the  more  he  rejoiced  as  he  thought  of  his 
hermitage  and  of  the  curious  difficulties  that  awaited 
him  there.  But  when,  suddenly  and  without  warn- 
ing, the  faculty  disappeared,  when  his  mind  seemed  a 
hopeless  waste,  from  which  nothing  could  arise,  then 
he  became  subject  to  a  misery  so  piteous  that  the  bar- 
barians themselves  would  have  been  sorry  for  him. 
He  had  known  some  foretaste  of  these  bitter  and 
inexpressible  griefs  in  the  old  country  days,  but 
then  he  had  immediately  taken  refuge  in  the  hills, 
he  had  rushed  to  the  dark  woods  as  to  an  anodyne, 
letting  his  heart  drink  in  all  the  wonder  and  magic 
of  the  wild  land.  Now  in  these  days  of  January,  in 
the  suburban  street,  there  was  no  such  refuge. 

He  had  been  working  steadily  for  some  weeks, 
well  enough  satisfied  on  the  whole  with  the  daily 
progress,  glad  to  awake  in  the  morning,  and  to 
read  over  what  he  had  written  on  the  night  before. 
The  new  year  opened  with  faint  and  heavy  weather 
and  a  breathless  silence  in  the  air,  but  in  a  few  days 
the  great  frost  set  in.  Soon  the  streets  began  to 

179 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

suggest  the  appearance  of  a  beleaguered  city,  the 
silence  that  had  preceded  the  frost  deepened,  and 
the  mist  hung  over  the  earth  like  a  dense  white 
smoke.  Night  after  night  the  cold  increased,  and 
people  seemed  unwilling  to  go  abroad,  till  even  the 
main  thoroughfares  were  empty  and  deserted,  as  if 
the  inhabitants  were  lying  close  in  hiding.  It  was  at 
this  dismal  time  that  Lucian  found  himself  reduced 
to  impotence.  There  was  a  sudden  break  in  his 
thought,  and  when  he  wrote  on  valiantly,  hoping 
against  hope,  he  only  grew  more  aghast  on  the 
discovery  of  the  imbecilities  he  had  committed  to 
paper.  He  ground  his  teeth  together  and  perse- 
vered, sick  at  heart,  feeling  as  if  all  the  world  were 
fallen  from  under  his  feet,  driving  his  pen  on  me- 
chanically, till  he  was  overwhelmed.  He  saw  the 
stuff  he  had  done  without  veil  or  possible  conceal- 
ment, a  lamentable  and  wretched  sheaf  of  verbiage, 
worse  it  seemed,  than  the  efforts  of  his  boyhood. 
He  was  no  longer  tautological,  he  avoided  tautology 
with  the  internal  art  of  a  leader-writer,  filling  his 
wind  bags  and  mincing  his  words  as  if  he  had  been 
a  trained  journalist  on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Post. 
There  seemed  all  the  matter  of  an  insufferable 
tragedy  in  these  thoughts;  that  his  patient  and  en- 
during toil  was  in  vain,  that  practice  went  for 
nothing,  and  that  he  had  wasted  the  labour  of  Mil- 
ton to  accomplish  the  tenth-rate.  Unhappily  he 
could  not  'give  in';  the  longing,  the  fury  for  the 

1 80 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

work  burnt  within  him  like  a  burning  fire;  he  lifted 
up  his  eyes  in  despair. 

It  was  then,  while  he  knew  that  no  one  could  help 
him,  that  he  languished  for  help,  and  then,  though 
he  was  aware  that  no  comfort  was  possible,  he  fer- 
vently wished  to  be  comforted.  The  only  friend 
he  had  was  his  father,  and  he  knew  that  his  father 
would  not  even  understand  his  distress.  For  him, 
always,  the  printed  book  was  the  beginning  and 
end  of  literature;  the  agony  of  the  maker,  his  de- 
spair and  sickness,  were  as  accursed  as  the  pains  of 
labour.  He  was  ready  to  read  and  admire  the  work 
of  the  great  Smith,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  of 
the  period  when  the  great  Smith  had  writhed  and 
twisted  like  a  scotched  worm,  only  hoping  to  be  put 
out  of  his  misery,  to  go  mad  or  die,  to  escape  some- 
how from  the  bitter  pains.  And  Lucian  knew  no 
one  else.  Now  and  then  he  read  in  the  paper  the 
fame  of  the  great  literateurs;  the  Gypsies  were 
entertaining  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  Jolly  Beg- 
gars were  dining  with  the  Lord  Mayor,  the  Old 
Mumpers  were  mingling  amicably  and  gorgeously 
with  the  leading  members  of  the  Stock  Exchange. 
He  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  know  none  of  these 
gentlemen,  but  it  hardly  seemed  likely  that  they 
could  have  done  much  for  him  in  any  case.  Indeed, 
in  his  heart,  he  was  certain  that  help  and  comfort 
from  without  were  in  the  nature  of  things  utterly 
impossible,  his  ruin  and  grief  were  within,  and  only 

181 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

his  own  assistance  could  avail.  He  tried  to  reassure 
himself,  to  believe  that  his  torments  were  a  proof 
of  his  vocation,  that  the  facility  of  the  novelist  who 
stood  six  years  deep  in  contracts  to  produce  ro- 
mances was  a  thing  wholly  undesirable,  but  all  the 
while  he  longed  for  but  a  drop  of  that  inexhaustible 
fluency  which  he  professed  to  despise. 

He  drove  himself  out  from  that  dreary  con- 
templation of  the  white  paper  and  the  idle  pen. 
He  went  into  the  frozen  and  deserted  streets,  hoping 
that  he  might  pluck  the  burning  coal  from  his  heart, 
but  the  fire  was  not  quenched.  As  he  walked  fu- 
riously along  the  grim  iron  roads  he  fancied  that 
those  persons  who  passed  him  cheerfully  on  their 
way  to  friends  and  friendly  hearths  shrank  from 
him  into  the  mist  as  they  went  by.  Lucian  im- 
agined that  the  fire  of  his  torment  and  anguish 
must  in  some  way  glow  visibly  about  him ;  he  moved, 
perhaps,  in  a  nimbus  that  proclaimed  the  blackness 
and  the  flames  within.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  in 
misery  he  had  grown  delirious,  that  the  well-coated, 
smooth-hatted  personages  who  loomed  out  of  the 
fog  upon  him  were  in  reality  shuddering  only  with 
cold,  but  in  spite  of  common  sense  he  still  conceived 
that  he  saw  on  their  faces  an  evident  horror  and 
disgust,  and  something  of  the  repugnance  that  one 
feels  at  the  sight  of  a  venemous  snake,  half-killed, 
trailing  its  bleeding  vileness  out  of  sight.  By  design 
Lucian  tried  to  make  for  remote  and  desolate  places, 

182 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

and  yet  when  he  had  succeeded  in  touching  on  the 
open  country,  and  knew  that  the  icy  shadow  hovering 
through  the  mist  was  a  field,  he  longed  for  some 
sound  and  murmur  of  life,  and  turned  again  to  roads 
where  pale  lamps  were  glimmering,  and  the  dancing 
flame  of  firelight  shone  across  the  frozen  shrubs. 
And  the  sight  of  these  homely  fires,  the  thought  of 
affection  and  consolation  waiting  by  them,  stung 
him  the  more  sharply  perhaps  because  of  the  contrast 
with  his  own  chills  and  weariness  and  helpless  sick- 
ness, and  chiefly  because  he  knew  that  he  had  long 
closed  an  everlasting  door  between  his  heart  and 
such  felicities.  If  those  within  had  come  out  and 
had  called  him  by  his  name  to  enter  and  be  com- 
forted, it  would  have  been  quite  unavailing,  since  be- 
tween them  and  him  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 
Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he  realised  that  he  had 
lost  the  art  of  humanity  forever.  He  had  thought 
when  he  closed  his  ears  to  the  wood  whisper  and 
changed  the  fauns'  singing  for  the  murmur  of  the 
streets,  the  black  pools  for  the  shadows  and  amber 
light  of  London,  that  he  had  put  off  the  old  life, 
and  had  turned  his  soul  to  healthy  activities,  "but 
the  truth  was  that  he  had  merely  exchanged  one  drug 
for  another.  He  could  not  be  human,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  there  were  some  drop  of  the  fairy 
blood  in  his  body  that  made  him  foreign  and  a 
stranger  in  the  world. 

He  did  not  surrender  to  desolation  without  re- 

183 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

peated  struggles.     He  strove  to  allure  himself  to 
his  desk  by  the  promise   of  some   easy  task;  he 
would  not  attempt  invention,  but  he  had  memoranda 
and  rough  jottings  of  ideas  in  his  note-book,  and 
he  would  merely  amplify  the  suggestions  ready  to 
his  hand.     But  it  was  hopeless,  again  and  again  it 
was  hopeless.     As  he  read  over  his  notes,  trusting 
that  he  would  find  some  hint  that  might  light  up  the 
dead  fires,  and  kindle  again  that  pure  flame  of  en- 
thusiasm, he  found  how  desperately  his  fortune  had 
fallen.     He  could  see  no  light,  no  colour  in  the 
lines  he  had  scribbled  with  eager  trembling  fingers ; 
he  remembered  how  splendid  all  these  things  had 
been  when  he  wrote  them  down,  but  now  they  were 
meaningless,  faded  into  grey.     The  few  words  he 
had    dashed    onto   the    paper,    enraptured    at   the 
thought  of  the  happy  hours  they  promised,  had  be- 
come mere  jargon,   and  when  he  understood  the 
idea  it  seemed  foolish,  dull,  unoriginal.     He  dis- 
covered something  at  last  that  appeared  to  have  a 
grain  of  promise,  and  determined  to  do  his  best  to 
put  it  into  shape,  but  the  first  paragraph  appalled 
him;  it  might  have  been  written  by  an  unintelligent 
schoolboy.     He  tore  the  paper  in  pieces,  and  shut 
and  locked  his  desk,  heavy  despair  sinking  like  lead 
into  his  heart.     For  the  rest  of  that  day  he  lay 
motionless  on  the  bed,  smoking  pipe  after  pipe  in 
the  hope  of  stupefying  himself  with  tobacco  fumes. 
The  air  in  the  room  became  blue  and  thick  with 

184 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

smoke ;  it  was  bitterly  cold,  and  he  wrapped  himself 
up  in  his  great-coat  and  drew  the  counterpane  over 
him.  The  night  came  on  and  the  window  darkened, 
and  at  last  he  fell  asleep. 

He  renewed  the  effort  at  intervals,  only  to  plunge 
deeper  into  misery.  He  felt  the  approaches  of 
madness,  and  knew  that  his  only  hope  was  to  walk 
till  he  was  physically  exhausted,  so  that  he  might 
come  home  almost  fainting  with  fatigue,  but  ready 
to  fall  asleep  the  moment  he  got  into  bed.  He 
passed  the  mornings  in  a  kind  of  torpor,  endeavour- 
ing to  avoid  thought,  to  occupy  his  mind  with  a  pat- 
tern of  the  paper,  with  the  advertisements  at  the 
end  of  a  book,  with  the  curious  greyness  of  the  light 
that  glimmered  through  the  mist  into  his  room,  with 
the  muffled  voices  that  rumbled  now  and  then  from 
the  street.  He  tried  to  make  out  the  design  that 
had  once  coloured  the  faded  carpet  on  the  floor,  and 
wondered  about  the  dead  artist  in  Japan,  the  adorner 
of  his  bureau.  He  speculated  as  to  what  his 
thoughts  had  been  as  he  inserted  the  rainbow 
mother-of-pearl  and  made  that  great  flight  of  shin- 
ing birds,  dipping  their  wings  as  they  rose  from  the 
reeds  or  how  he  had  conceived  the  lacquer  dragons 
in  red  gold,  and  the  fantastic  houses  in  the  garden 
of  peach-trees.  But  sooner  or  later  the  oppression 
of  his  grief  returned,  the  loud  shriek  and  clang  of 
the  garden-gate,  the  warning  bell  of  some  passing  bi- 
cyclist steering  through  the  fog,  the  noise  of  his  pipe 

185 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

falling  to  the  floor,  would  suddenly  awaken  him  to 
the  sense  of  misery.  He  knew  that  it  was  time  to  go 
out;  he  could  not  bear  to  sit  still  and  suffer.  Some- 
times he  cut  a  slice  of  bread  and  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
sometimes  he  trusted  to  the  chance  of  finding  a 
public-house  where  he  could  have  a  sandwich  and  a 
glass  of  beer.  He  turned  always  from  the  main 
streets  and  lost  himself  in  the  intricate  surburban 
byways,  willing  to  be  engulfed  in  the  infinite  white- 
ness of  the  mist. 

The  roads  had  stiffened  into  iron  ridges,  the 
fences  and  trees  were  glittering  with  frost  crystals, 
everything  was  of  strange  and  altered  aspect. 
Lucian  walked  on  and  on  through  the  maze,  now  in 
a  circle  of  shadowy  villas,  awful  as  the  buried  streets 
of  Herculaneum,  now  in  lanes  dipping  into  the  open 
country,  that  led  him  past  great  elm-trees  whose 
white  boughs  were  all  still,  and  past  the  bitter  lonely 
fields  where  the  mist  seemed  to  fade  away  into  grey 
darkness.  As  he  wandered  along  these  unfamiliar 
and  ghastly  paths  he  became  the  more  convinced  of 
his  utter  remoteness  from  all  humanity,  he  allowed 
that  grotesque  suggestion  of  there  being  something 
visibly  amiss  in  his  outward  appearance  to  grow 
upon  him,  and  often  he  looked  with  a  horrible  ex- 
pectation into  the  faces  of  those  who  passed  by, 
afraid  lest  his  own  senses  gave  him  false  intelli- 
gence, and  that  he  had  really  assumed  some  fright- 

186 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ful  and  revolting  shape.  It  was  curious  that,  partly 
by  his  own  fault,  and  largely,  no  doubt,  through 
the  operation  of  mere  coincidence,  he  was  once  or 
twice  strongly  confirmed  in  this  fantastic  delusion. 
He  came  one  day  into  a  lonely  and  unfrequented  by- 
way, a  country  lane  falling  into  ruin,  but  still  fringed 
with  elms  that  had  formed  an  avenue  leading  to  the 
old  manor-house.  It  was  now  the  road  of  commun- 
ication between  two  far  outlying  suburbs,  and  on 
these  winter  nights  lay  as  black,  dreary,  and  desolate 
as  a  mountain  track.  Soon  after  the  frost  began,  a 
gentleman  had  been  set  upon  in  this  lane  as  he 
picked  his  way  between  the  corner  where  the  bus 
had  set  him  down,  and  his  home  where  the  fire  was 
blazing,  and  his  wife  watched  the  clock.  He  was 
stumbling  uncertainly  through  the  gloom,  growing 
a  little  nervous  because  the  walk  seemed  so  long, 
and  peering  anxiously  for  the  lamp  at  the  end  of  his 
street,  when  the  two  footpads  rushed  at  him  out  of 
the  fog.  One  caught  him  from  behind,  the  other 
struck  him  with  a  heavy  bludgeon,  and  as  he  lay 
senseless  they  robbed  him  of  his  watch  and  money, 
and  vanished  across  the  fields.  The  next  morning 
all  the  suburb  rang  with  the  story;  the  unfortunate 
merchant  had  been  grievously  hurt,  and  wives 
watched  their  husbands  go  out  in  the  morning  with 
sickening  apprehension,  not  knowing  what  might 
happen  at  night.  Lucian  of  course  was  ignorant  of 

187 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

all  these  rumours,  and  struck  into  the  gloomy  by- 
road without  caring  where  he  was  or  whither  the 
way  would  lead  him. 

He  had  been  driven  out  that  day  as  with  whips, 
another  hopeless  attempt  to  return  to  the  work 
had  agonised  him,  and  existence  seemed  an  intoler- 
able pain.  As  he  entered  the  deeper  gloom,  where 
the  fog  hung  heavily,  he  began,  half  consciously,  to 
gesticulate;  he  felt  convulsed  with  torment  and 
shame,  and  it  was  a  sorry  relief  to  clench  his  nails 
into  his  palm  and  strike  the  air  as  he  stumbled 
heavily  along,  bruising  his  feet  against  the  frozen 
ruts  and  ridges.  His  impotence  was  hideous,  he 
said  to  himself,  and  he  cursed  himself  and  his  life, 
breaking  out  into  a  loud  oath,  and  stamping  on  the 
ground.  Suddenly  he  was  shocked  at  a  scream  of 
terror,  it  seemed  in  his  very  ear,  and  looking  up 
he  saw  for  a  moment  a  woman  gazing  at  him  out 
of  the  mist,  her  features  distorted  and  stiff  with 
fear.  A  momentary  convulsion  twitched  her  arms 
into  the  ugly  mimicry  of  a  beckoning  gesture,  and 
she  turned  and  ran  for  dear  life,  howling  like  a 
beast. 

Lucian  stood  still  in  the  road  while  the  woman's 
cries  grew  faint  and  died  away.  His  heart  was 
chilled  within  him  as  the  significance  of  this  strange 
incident  became  clear.  He  remembered  nothing  of 
his  violent  gestures;  he  had  not  known  at  the  time 
that  he  had  sworn  out  loud,  or  that  he  was  grind- 

188 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ing  his  teeth  with  impotent  rage.  He  only  thought 
of  that  ringing  scream,  of  the  horrible  fear  on  the 
white  face  that  had  looked  upon  him,  of  the  woman's 
headlong  flight  from  his  presence.  He  stood  trem- 
bling and  shuddering,  and  in  a  little  while  he  was- 
feeling  his  face,  searching  for  some  loathsome  mark, 
for  the  stigmata  of  evil  branding  his  forehead.  He 
staggered  homewards  like  a  drunken  man,  and  when 
he  came  into  the  Uxbridge  Road  some  children  saw 
him  and  called  after  him  as  he  swayed  and  caught 
at  the  lamp-post.  When  he  got  to  his  room  he  sat 
down  at  first  in  the  dark.  He  did  not  dare  to 
light  the  gas.  Everything  in  the  room  was  indis- 
tinct, but  he  shut  his  eyes  as  he  passed  the  dressing- 
table,  and  sat  in  a  corner,  his  face  turned  to  the 
wall.  And  when  at  last  he  gathered  courage  and  the 
flame  leapt  hissing  from  the  jet,  he  crept  piteously 
towards  the  glass,  and  ducked  his  head,  crouching 
miserably,  and  struggling  with  his  terrors  before 
he  could  look  at  his  own  image. 

To  the  best  of  his  power  he  tried  to  deliver  him- 
self from  these  more  grotesque  fantasies;  he  as- 
sured himself  that  there  was  nothing  terrific  in  his 
countenance  but  sadness,  that  his  face  was  like  the 
face  of  other  men.  Yet  he  could  not  forget  that 
reflection  he  had  seen  in  the  woman's  eyes,  how  the 
surest  mirrors  had  shown  him  a  horrible  dread, 
her  soul  itself  quailing  and  shuddering  at  an  awful 
sight.  Her  scream  rang  and  rang  in  his  ears;  she 

189 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

had  fled  away  from  him  as  if  he  offered  some  fate 
darker  than  death. 

He  looked  again  and  again  into  the  glass,  tortured 
by  a  hideous  uncertainty.  His  senses  told  him  there 
was  nothing  amiss,  yet  he  had  had  a  proof,  and  yet, 
as  he  peered  more  earnestly,  there  was,  it  seemed, 
something  strange  and  not  altogether  usual  in  the 
expression  of  the  eyes.  Perhaps  it  might  be  the 
unsteady  flare  of  the  gas,  or  perhaps  a  flaw  in  the 
cheap  looking-glass,  that  gave  some  slight  distor- 
tion to  the  image.  He  walked  briskly  up  and  down 
the  room  and  tried  to  gaze  steadily,  indifferently, 
into  his  own  face.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to 
be  misguided  by  a  word.  Wh  jn  he  had  pronounced 
himself  incapable  of  humanity,  he  had  only  meant 
that  he  could  not  enjoy  the  simplest  things  of  com- 
mon life.  A  man  was  not  necessarily  monstrous, 
surrounded  by  a  red  halo  of  malediction,  merely  be- 
cause he  did  not  appreciate  high  tea,  a  quiet  chat 
about  the  neighbours,  and  a  happy  noisy  evening  with 
the  children.  But  with  what  message,  then,  did  he 
appear  charged  that  the  woman's  mouth  grew  so 
stark?  Her  hands  had  jerked  up  as  if  they  had 
been  pulled  with  frantic  wires;  she  seemed  for  the 
instant  like  a  horrible  puppet.  Her  scream  was 
a  thing  from  the  nocturnal  Sabbath. 

He  lit  a  candle  and  held  it  close  up  to  the  glass 
so  that  his  own  face  glared  white  at  him,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  room  became  an  indistinct  dark- 

190 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ness.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  candle  flame  and 
his  own  shining  eyes,  and  surely  they  were  not  as 
the  eyes  of  common  men.  As  he  put  down  the  light, 
a  sudden  suggestion  entered  his  mind,  and  he  drew 
a  quick  breath,  amazed  at  the  thought.  He  hardly 
knew  whether  to  rejoice  or  to  shudder.  For  the 
thought  he  conceived  was  this:  that  he  had  mis- 
taken all  the  circumstances  of  the  adventure,  and 
had  perhaps  repulsed  a  sister  who  would  have  wel- 
comed him  to  the  Sabbath. 

He  lay  awake  all  night,  turning  from  one  dreary 
and  frightful  thought  to  the  other,  scarcely  dozing 
for  a  few  hours  when  the  dawn  came.  He  tried  for 
a  moment  to  argue  with  himself  when  he  got  up; 
knowing  that  his  true  life  was  locked  up  in  the 
bureau,  he  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  drive  the 
phantoms  and  hideous  shapes  from  his  mind.  He 
was  assured  that  his  salvation  was  in  the  work,  and 
he  drew  the  key  from  his  pocket,  and  made  as  if 
he  would  have  opened  the  desk.  But  the  nausea, 
the  remembrances  of  repeated  and  utter  failures, 
were  too  powerful.  For  many  days  he  hung  about 
the  Manor  Lane,  half  dreading,  half  desiring  an- 
other meeting,  and  he  swore  he  would  not  again 
mistake  the  cry  of  rapture,  nor  repulse  the  arms  ex- 
tended in  a  frenzy  of  delight.  In  those  days  he 
dreamed  of  some  dark  place  where  they  might  cele- 
brate and  make  the  marriage  of  the  Sabbath,  with 
such  rites  as  he  had  dared  imagine. 

191 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

It  was  perhaps  only  the  shock  of  a  letter  from 
his  father  that  rescued  him  from  these  evident 
approaches  to  madness.  Mr.  Taylor  wrote  how 
they  had  missed  him  at  Christmas,  how  the  farmers 
had  inquired  after  him,  of  the  homely  familiar 
things  that  recalled  his  boyhood,  his  mother's  voice, 
the  friendly  fireside,  and  the  good  old  fashions  that 
had  nurtured  him.  He  remembered  that  he  had 
once  been  a  boy,  loving  the  cake  and  puddings  and 
the  radiant  holly,  and  all  the  seventeenth-century 
mirth  that  lingered  on  in  the  ancient  farm-houses. 
And  there  came  to  him  the  holy  memory  of  Mass 
on  Christmas  morning.  How  sweet  the  dark  and 
frosty  earth  had  smelt  as  he  walked  beside  his 
mother  down  the  winding  lane,  and  from  the  stile 
near  the  church  they  had  seen  the  world  glimmer- 
ing to  the  dawn,  and  the  wandering  lanthorns  ad- 
vancing across  the  fields.  Then  he  had  come  into 
the  church  and  seen  it  shining  with  candles  and  holly, 
and  his  father  in  pure  vestments  of  white  linen 
sang  the  longing  music  of  the  liturgy  at  the  altar, 
and  the  people  answered  him,  till  the  sun  rose  with 
the  grave  notes  of  the  Paternoster,  and  a  red  beam 
stole  though  the  chancel  window. 

The  worst  horror  left  him  as  he  recalled  the  mem- 
ory of  these  dear  and  holy  things.  He  cast  away 
the  frightful  fancy  that  the  scream  he  had  heard 
was  a  shriek  of  joy,  that  the  arms,  rigidly  jerked 
out,  invited  him  to  an  embrace.  Indeed,  the 

192 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

thought  that  he  had  longed  for  such  an  obscene 
illusion,  that  he  had  gloated  over  the  recollection  of 
that  stark  mouth,  filled  him  with  disgust.  He  re^ 
solved  that  his  senses  were  deceived,  that  he  had 
neither  seen  nor  heard,  but  had  for  a  moment  ex- 
ternalized his  own  slumbering  and  morbid  dreams. 
It  was  perhaps  necessary  that  he  should  be  wretched, 
that  his  efforts  should  be  discouraged,  but  he  would 
not  yield  utterly  to  madness. 

Yet  when  he  went  abroad  with  such  good  reso- 
lutions, it  was  hard  to  resist  an  influence  that  seemed 
to  come  from  without  and  within.  He  did  not 
know  it,  but  people  were  everywhere  talking  of  the 
great  frost,  of  the  fog  that  lay  heavy  on  London, 
making  the  streets  dark  and  terrible,  of  strange 
birds  that  came  fluttering  about  the  windows  in  the 
silent  squares.  The  Thames  rolled  out  duskily 
bearing  down  the  jarring  ice-blocks,  and  as  one 
looked  on  the  black  water  from  the  bridges  it  was 
like  a  river  in  a  northern  tale.  To  Lucian  it  all 
seemed  mythical,  of  the  same  substance  as  his  own 
fantastic  thoughts.  He  rarely  saw  a  newspaper, 
and  did  not  follow  from  day  to  day  the  systematic 
readings  of  the  thermometer,  the  reports  of  ice- 
fairs,  of  coaches  driven  across  the  river  at  Hampton, 
of  the  skating  on  the  fens;  and  hence  the  iron  roads, 
the  beleagured  silence  and  the  heavy  folds  of  mist 
appeared  as  amazing  as  a  picture,  significant,  appall- 
ing. He  could  not  look  out  and  see  a  common  sub- 

193 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

urban  street  foggy  and  dull,  nor  think  of  the  inhabi- 
tants as  at  work  or  sitting  cheerfully  eating  nuts 
about  their  fires;  he  saw  a  vision  of  a  grey  road 
vanishing,  of  dim  houses  all  empty  and  deserted, 
and  the  silence  seemed  eternal.  And  when  he  went 
out  and  passed  through  street  after  street,  all  void, 
by  the  vague  shapes  of  houses  that  appeared  for  a 
moment  and  were  then  instantly  swallowed  up,  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had  strayed  into  a  city 
that  had  suffered  some  inconceivable  doom,  that 
he  alone  wandered  where  myriads  had  once  dwelt. 
It  was  a  town  great  as  Babylon,  terrible  as  Rome, 
marvellous  as  Lost  Atlantis,  set  in  the  midst  of  a 
white  wilderness  surrounded  by  waste  places.  It 
was  impossible  to  escape  from  it;  if  he  skulked  be- 
tween hedges,  and  crept  away  beyond  the  frozen 
pools,  presently  the  serried  stony  lines  confronted 
him  like  an  army,  and  far  they  swept  away  into  the 
night,  as  some  fabled  wall  that  guards  an  empire 
in  the  vast  dim  east.  Or  in  that  distorting  medium 
of  the  mist,  changing  all  things,  he  imagined  that 
he  trod  an  infinite  desolate  plain,  abandoned  from 
ages,  but  circled  and  encircled  with  dolmen  and 
menhir  that  loomed  out  at  him,  gigantic,  terrible. 
All  London  was  one  grey  temple  of  an  awful  rite, 
ring  within  ring  of  wizard  stones  circled  about 
some  central  place,  every  circle  was  an  initiation, 
every  initiation  eternal  loss.  Or  perhaps  he  was 
astray  forever  in  a  land  of  grey  rocks.  He  had 

194 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

seen  the  light  of  home,  the  flicker  of  the  fire  on 
the  walls;  close  at  hand,  it  seemed,  was  the  open 
door,  and  he  had  heard  dear  voices  calling  to  him 
across  the  gloom,  but  he  had  just  missed  the  path. 
The  lamps  vanished,  the  voices  sounded  thin  and 
4ied  away,  and  yet  he  knew  that  those  within 
were  waiting,  that  they  could  not  bear  to  close 
the  door,  but  waited,  calling  his  name,  while  he 
had  missed  the  way,  and  wandered  in  the  pathless 
desert  of  the  grey  rocks.  Fantastic,  hideous,  they 
beset  him  wherever  he  turned,  piled  up  into  strange 
shapes,  pricked  with  sharp  peaks,  assuming  the  ap- 
pearance of  goblin  towers,  swelling  into  a  vague 
dome  like  a  fairy  rath,  huge  and  terrible.  And  as 
one  dream  faded  into  another,  so  these  last  fancies 
were  perhaps  the  most  tormenting  and  persistent; 
the  rocky  avenues  became  the  camp  and  fortalice 
of  some  half-human,  malignant  race  who  swarmed 
in  hiding,  ready  to  bear  him  away  into  the  heart  of 
their  horrible  hills.  It  was  awful  to  think  that 
all  his  goings  were  surrounded,  that  in  the  darkness 
he  was  watched  and  surveyed,  that  every  step  but 
led  him  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  labyrinth. 

When,  of  an  evening,  he  was  secure  in  his  room, 
the  blind  drawn  down  and  the  gas  flaring,  he  made 
vigorous  efforts  towards  sanity.  It  was  not  of  his 
free  will  that  he  allowed  terror  to  over-master  him, 
and  he  desired  nothing  better  than  a  placid  and  harm- 
less life,  full  of  work  and  clear  thinking.  He  knew 

'95 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

that  he  deluded  himself  with  imagination,  that  he 
had  been  walking  through  London  suburbs  and  not 
through  Pandemonium,  and  that  if  he  could  but 
unlock  his  bureau  all  those  ugly  forms  would  be 
resolved  into  the  mist.  But  it  was  hard  to  say  if 
he  consoled  himself  effectually  with  such  reflections, 
for  the  return  to  common  sense  meant  also  the  re- 
turn to  the  sharp  pangs  of  defeat.  It  recalled  him 
to  the  bitter  theme  of  his  own  inefficiency,  to  the 
thought  that  he  only  desired  one  thing  of  life,  and 
that  this  was  denied  him.  He  was  willing  to  endure 
the  austerities  of  a  monk  in  a  severe  cloister,  to  suf- 
fer cold,  to  be  hungry,  to  be  lonely  and  friendless,  to 
forbear  all  the  consolation  of  friendly  speech,  and 
to  be  glad  of  all  these  things,  if  only  he  might  be 
allowed  to  illuminate  the  manuscript  in  quietness. 
It  seemed  a  hideous  insufferable  cruelty,  that  he 
should  so  fervently  desire  that  which  he  could  never 
gain. 

He  was  led  back  to  the  old  conclusion;  he  had 
lost  the  sense  of  humanity,  he  was  wretched  be- 
cause he  was  an  alien  and  a  stranger  amongst 
citizens.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  enthusiasm 
of  literature,  as  he  understood  it,  the  fervent  desire 
for  the  fine  art,  had  in  it  something  of  the  inhuman 
and  dissevered  the  enthusiast  from  his  fellow-crea- 
tures. It  was  possible  that  the  barbarian  suspected 
as  much,  that  by  some  slow  process  of  rumination 
he  had  arrived  at  his  fixed  and  inveterate  hatred  of 

196 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

all  artists.  It  was  no  doubt  a  dim  unconscious  im- 
pression, by  no  means  a  clear  reasoned  conviction; 
the  average  Philistine,  if  pressed  for  the  reasons 
of  his  dislike,  would  either  become  inarticulate, 
ejaculating  'faugh'  and  'pah'  like  an  old-fashioned 
Scots  Magazine,  or  else  he  would  give  some  imagi- 
nary and  absurd  reason,  alleging  that  all  'littery  men' 
were  poor,  that  composers  never  cut  their  hair,  that 
painters  were  rarely  public-school  men,  that  sculp- 
tors couldn't  ride  straight  to  hounds  to  save  their 
lives,  but  clearly  these  imbecilities  were  mere  after- 
thoughts; the  average  man  hated  the  artist  from 
a  deep  instinctive  dread  of  all  that  was  strange, 
uncanny,  alien  to  his  nature;  he  gibbered,  uttered 
his  harsh,  semi-bestial  'faugh,'  and  dismissed  Keats 
to  his  gallipots  from  much  the  same  motives  as 
usually  impelled  the  black  savage  to  dismiss  the 
white  man  on  an  even  longer  journey. 

Lucian  was  not  especially  interested  in  this  hatred 
of  the  barbarian  for  the  maker,  except  from  this 
point,  that  it  confirmed  him  in  his  belief  that  the 
love  of  art  dissociated  the  man  from  the  race.  One 
touch  of  art  made  the  whole  world  alien,  but  surely 
the  miseries  of  the  civilised  man  cast  amongst  sav- 
ages were  not  so  much  caused  by  dread  of  their  fe- 
rocity as  by  the  terror  of  his  own  loneliness.  He 
feared  their  spears  less  than  his  own  thoughts;  he 
would  perhaps  in  his  last  despair  leave  his  retreat 
and  go  forth  to  perish  at  their  hands,  so  that  he 

197 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

might  at  least  die  in  company,  and  hear  the  sound  of 
speech  before  death.  And  Lucian  felt  most  keenly 
that  in  his  case  there  was  a  double  curse;  he  was  as 
isolated  as  Keats,  and  as  inarticulate  as  his  review- 
ers. The  consolation  of  the  work  had  failed  him, 
and  he  was  suspended  in  the  void  between  two 
worlds. 

It  was  no  doubt  the  composite  effect  of  his  fail- 
ures, his  loneliness  of  soul,  and  solitude  of  life, 
that  had  made  him  invest  those  common  streets 
with  such  grim  and  persistent  terrors.  He  had  per- 
haps yielded  to  a  temptation  without  knowing  that 
he  had  been  tempted,  and,  in  the  manner  of  De 
Quincey,  had  chosen  the  subtle  in  exchange  for  the 
more  tangible  pains.  Unconsciously,  but  still  of 
free  will,  he  had  preferred  the  splendour  and  the 
gloom  of  a  malignant  vision  before  his  corporal 
pains,  before  the  hard  reality  of  his  own  impotence. 
It  was  better  to  dwell  in  vague  melancholy,  to  stray 
in  the  forsaken  streets  of  a  city  doomed  from  ages, 
to  wander  amidst  forlorn  and  desperate  rocks  than 
to  awake  to  a  gnawing  and  ignoble  torment,  to  con- 
fess that  a  house  of  business  would  have  been  more 
suitable  and  more  practical,  that  he  had  promised 
what  he  could  never  perform.  Even  as  he  struggled 
to  beat  back  the  phantasmagoria  of  the  mist,  and 
resolved  that  he  would  no  longer  make  all  the 
streets  a  stage  of  apparitions;  he  hardly  realised 
what  he  had  done,  or  that  the  ghosts  he  had  called 
might  depart  and  return  again. 

198 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

He  continued  his  long  walks,  always  with  the 
object  of  producing  a  physical  weariness  and  ex- 
haustion that  would  enable  him  to  sleep  of  nights. 
But  even  when  he  saw  the  foggy  and  deserted  ave- 
nues in  their  proper  shape,  and  allowed  his  eyes  to 
catch  the  pale  glimmer  of  the  lamps,  and  the  dancing 
flame  of  the  firelight,  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
impression  that  he  stood  afar  off,  that  between 
those  hearths  and  himself  there  was  a  great  gulf 
fixed.  As  he  paced  down  the  footpath  he  could 
often  see  plainly  across  the  frozen  shrubs  into  the 
homely  and  cheerful  rooms.  Sometimes,  late  in 
the  evening,  he  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  the 
family  at  tea,  father,  mother,  and  children  laugh- 
ing and  talking  together,  well  pleased  with  each 
other's  company.  Sometimes  a  wife  or  a  child  was 
standing  by  the  garden  gate  peering  anxiously 
through  the  fog,  and  the  sight  of  it  all,  all  the  little 
details,  the  hideous  but  comfortable  armchairs 
turned  ready  to  the  fire,  maroon-red  curtains  being 
drawn  close  to  shut  out  the  ugly  night,  the  sudden 
blaze  and  illumination  as  the  fire  was  poked  up  so 
that  it  might  be  cheerful  for  father;  these  trivial 
and  common  things  were  acutely  significant.  They 
brought  back  to  him  the  image  of  a  dead  boy — 
himself.  They  recalled  the  shabby  old  'parlour' 
in  the  country,  with  its  shabby  old  furniture  and 
fading  carpet,  and  renewed  a  whole  atmosphere  of 
affection  and  homely  comfort.  His  mother  would 

199 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

walk  to  the  end  of  the  drive  and  look  out  for 
him  when  he  was  late,  (wandering  then  about 
the  dark  woodlands)  ;  on  winter  evenings  she  would 
make  the  fire  blaze,  and  have  his  slippers  warming 
by  the  hearth,  and  there  was  probably  buttered 
toast  'as  a  treat.'  He  dwelt  on  all  these  insignifi- 
cant petty  circumstances,  on  the  genial  glow  and 
light  after  the  muddy  winter  lanes,  on  the  relish  of 
the  buttered  toast  and  the  smell  of  the  hot  tea,  on 
the  two  old  cats  curled  fast  asleep  before  the  fender, 
and  made  them  instruments  of  exquisite  pain  and 
regret.  Each  of  these  strange  houses  that  he  passed 
was  identified  in  his  mind  with  his  own  vanished 
home ;  all  was  prepared  and  ready  as  in  the  old  days, 
but  he  was  shut  out,  judged  and  condemned  to 
wander  in  the  frozen  mist,  with  weary  feet,  an- 
guished and  forlorn,  and  they  would  pass  from 
within  to  help  him  could  not,  neither  could  he  pass 
to  them.  Again,  for  the  hundredth  time,  he  came 
back  to  the  sentence,  he  could  not  gain  the  art  of 
letters  and  he  had  lost  the  art  of  humanity.  He 
saw  the  vanity  of  all  his  thoughts ;  he  was  an  ascetic 
caring  nothing  for  warmth  and  cheerfulness  and  the 
small  comforts  of  life,  and  yet  he  allowed  his  mind 
to  dwell  on  such  things.  If  one  of  those  passers-by, 
who  walked  briskly,  eager  for  home,  should  have 
pitied  him  by  some  miracle  and  asked  him  to  come 
in,  it  would  have  been  worse  than  useless,  yet  he 
longed  for  pleasures  that  he  could  not  have  enjoyed. 

200 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

It  was  as  if  he  were  come  to  a  place  of  torment, 
where  they  who  could  not  drink  longed  for  water, 
where  they  who  could  feel  no  warmth  shuddered  in 
the  eternal  cold.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  grim 
conceit  that  he  himself  still  slept  within  the  matted 
thicket,  imprisoned  by  the  green  bastions  of  the 
Roman  fort.  He  had  never  come  out,  but  a 
changeling  had  gone  down  the  hill,  and  now  stirred 
about  the  earth. 

Beset  by  such  ingenious  terrors,  it  was  not  won- 
derful that  outward  events  and  common  incidents 
should  abet  his  fancies.  He  had  succeeded  one  day 
in  escaping  from  the  mesh  of  the  streets,  and  fell 
on  a  rough  and  narrow  lane  that  stole  into  a  little 
valley.  For  the  moment  he  was  in  a  somewhat 
happier  mood;  the  afternoon  sun  glowed  through 
the  rolling  mist,  and  the  air  grew  clearer.  He  saw 
quiet  and  peaceful  fields,  and  a  wood  descending  in 
a  gentle  slope  from  an  old  farmstead  of  warm  red 
brick.  The  farmer  was  driving  the  slow  cattle  home 
from  the  hill,  and  his  loud  halloo  to  his  dog  came 
across  the  land  a  cheerful  mellow  note.  From  an- 
other side  a  cart  was  approaching  the  clustered 
barns,  hesitating,  pausing  while  the  great  horses 
rested,  and  then  starting  again  into  lazy  motion. 
In  the  well  of  the  valley  a  wandering  line  of  bushes 
showed  where  a  brook  crept  in  and  out  amongst  the 
meadows,  and,  as  Lucian  stood,  lingering,  on  the 
bridge,  a  soft  and  idle  breath  ruffled  though  the 

2O I 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

boughs  of  a  great  elm.  He  felt  soothed,  as  by 
calm  music,  and  wondered  whether  it  would  not  be 
better  for  him  to  live  in  some  such  quiet  place,  with- 
in reach  of  the  streets  and  yet  remote  from  them. 
It  seemed  a  refuge  from  ill  thoughts;  he  could 
imagine  himself  sitting  at  rest  beneath  the  black 
yew  tree  in  the  farm  garden,  at  the  close  of 
a  summer  day.  He  had  almost  determined  that 
he  would  knock  at  the  door  and  ask  if  they  would 
take  him  as  a  lodger,  when  he  saw  a  child  running 
towards  him  down  the  lane.  It  was  a  little  girl, 
with  bright  curls  tossing  about  her  head,  and,  as 
she  came  on,  the  sunlight  glowed  upon  her,  illu- 
minating her  brick-red  frock  and  the  yellow  king- 
cups in  her  hat.  She  had  run  with  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  chirping  and  laughing  to  herself,  and  did 
not  see  Lucian  till  she  was  quite  near  him.  She 
started  and  glanced  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
and  began  to  cry;  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  and 
she  ran  from  him  screaming,  frightened  no  doubt  by 
what  was  to  her  a  sudden  and  strange  apparition. 
He  turned  back  towards  London,  and  the  mist 
folded  him  in  its  thick  darkness,  for  on  that  evening 
it  was  tinged  with  black. 

It  was  only  by  the  intensest  strain  of  resolution 
that  he  did  not  yield  utterly  to  the  poisonous  ano- 
dyne which  was  always  at  his  hand.  It  had  been  a 
difficult  struggle  to  escape  from  the  mesh  of  the 
hills,  from  the  music  of  the  fauns,  and  even  now 

202 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  was  drawn  by  the  memory  of  these  old  allure- 
ments. But  he  felt  that  here,  in  his  loneliness,  he 
he  was  in  greater  danger,  and  beset  by  a  blacker 
magic.  Horrible  fancies  rushed  wantonly  into  his 
mind;  he  was  not  only  ready  to  believe  that  some- 
thing in  his  soul  sent  a  shudder  through  all  that  was 
simple  and  innocent,  but  he  came  trembling  home 
one  Saturday  night,  believing,  or  half-believing, 
that  he  was  in  communion  with  evil.  He  had  passed 
through  the  clamorous  and  blatant  crowd  of  the 
'high  street,'  where,  as  one  climbed  the  hill,  the 
shops  seemed  all  aflame,  and  the  black  night  air 
glowed  with  the  flaring  gas-jets  and  the  naphtha- 
lamps,  hissing  and  wavering  before  the  February 
wind.  Voices,  raucous,  clamant,  abominable,  were 
belched  out  of  the  blazing  public-houses  as  the 
doors  swung  to  and  fro,  and  above  these  doors  were 
hideous  brassy  lamps,  very  slowly  swinging  in  a 
violent  blast  of  air,  so  that  they  might  have  been 
infernal  thuribles,  censing  the  people.  Some  man 
was  calling  his  wares  in  one  long  continuous  shriek 
that  never  stopped  or  paused,  and,  as  a  respond, 
a  deeper,  louder  voice  roared  to  him  from  across 
the  road.  An  Italian  whirled  the  handle  of  his 
piano-organ  in  a  fury,  and  a  ring  of  imps  danced 
mad  figures  around  him,  danced  and  flung  up  their 
legs  till  the  rags  dropped  from  some  of  them,  and 
they  still  danced  on.  A  flare  of  naphtha,  burning 
with  a  rushing  noise,  threw  a  light  on  one  point  of 

203 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  circle,  and  Lucian  watched  a  lank  girl  of  fifteen 
as  she  came  round  and  round  to  the  flash.  She  was 
quite  drunk,  and  had  kicked  her  petticoats  away, 
and  the  crowd  howled  laughter  and  applause 
at  her.  Her  black  hair  poured  down  and  leapt 
on  her  scarlet  bodice;  she  sprang  and  leapt  round 
the  ring,  laughing  in  Bacchic  frenzy,  and  led  the 
orgy  to  triumph.  People  were  crossing  to  and  fro, 
jostling  against  each  other,  swarming  about  certain 
shops  and  stalls  in  a  dense  dark  mass  that  quivered 
and  sent  out  feelers  as  if  it  were  one  writhing  or- 
ganism. A  little  farther  a  group  of  young  men, 
arm  in  arm,  were  marching  down  the  roadway 
chanting  some  music-hall  verse  in  full  chorus,  so 
that  it  sounded  like  plainsong.  An  impossible  hub- 
bub, a  hum  of  voices  angry  as  swarming  bees,  the 
squeals  of  five  or  six  girls  who  ran  in  and  out,  dived 
up  dark  passages  and  darted  back  into  the  crowd; 
all  these  mingled  together  till  his  ears  quivered. 
A  young  fellow  was  playing  the  concertina,  and  he 
touched  the  keys  with  such  slow  fingers  that  the 
tune  wailed  solemn  into  a  dirge;  but  there  was 
nothing  so  strange  as  the  burst  of  sound  that 
swelled  out  when  the  public-house  doors  were 
opened. 

He  walked  amongst  these  people,  looked  at 
their  faces,  and  looked  at  the  children  amongst 
them.  He  had  come  thinking  that  he  would  see 
the  English  working  class,  'the  best-behaved  and 

204 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  best-tempered  crowd  in  the  world,'  enjoying  the 
simple  pleasure  of  the  Saturday  night's  shopping. 
Mother  bought  the  joint  for  Sunday's  dinner,  and 
perhaps  a  pair  of  boots  for  father;  father  had  an 
honest  glass  of  beer,  and  the  children  were  given 
bags  of  sweets,  and  then  all  these  worthy  people 
went  decently  home  to  their  well-earned  rest.  De 
Quincey  had  enjoyed  the  sight  in  his  day,  and  had 
studied  the  rise  and  fall  of  onions  and  potatoes. 
Lucian,  indeed,  had  desired  to  take  these  simple 
emotions  as  an  opiate,  to  forget  the  fine  fret  and 
fantastic  trouble  of  his  own  existence  in  plain  things 
and  the  palpable  joy  of  rest  after  labor.  He  was 
only  afraid  lest  he  should  be  too  sharply  re- 
proached by  the  sight  of  these  men  who  fought 
bravely  year  after  year  against  starvation,  who 
knew  nothing  of  intricate  and  imagined  grief,  but 
only  the  weariness  of  relentless  labour,  of  the 
long  battle  for  their  wives  and  children.  It  would 
be  pathetic,  he  thought,  to  see  them  content  with 
so  little,  brightened  by  the  expectation  of  a  day's 
rest  and  a  good  dinner,  forced,  even  then,  to  reckon 
every  penny,  and  to  make  their  children  laugh 
with  halfpence.  Either  he  would  be  ashamed  be- 
fore so  much  content,  or  else  he  would  be  again 
touched  by  the  sense  of  his  inhumanity  which  could 
take  no  interest  in  the  common  things  of  life.  But 
still  he  went  to  be  at  least  taken  out  of  himself,  to  be 
forced  to  look  at  another  side  of  the  world,  so  that 

205 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  might  perhaps  forget  for  a  little  while  his  own 
sorrows. 

He  was  fascinated  by  what  he  saw  and  heard. 
He  wondered  whether  De  Quincey  also  had  seen 
the  same  spectacle,  and  had  concealed  his  impres- 
sions out  of  reverence  for  the  average  reader. 
Here  there  were  no  simple  joys  of  honest  toilers, 
but  wonderful  orgies,  that  drew  out  his  heart  to 
horrible  music.  At  first  the  violence  of  sound 
and  sight  had  overwhelmed  him;  the  lights  flaring 
in  the  night  wind,  the  array  of  naphtha  lamps,  the 
black  shadows,  the  roar  of  voices.  The  dance 
about  the  piano-organ  had  been  the  first  sign  of  an 
inner  meaning,  and  the  face  of  the  dark  girl  as  she 
came  round  and  round  to  the  flame  had  been 
amazing  in  its  utter  furious  abandon.  And  what 
songs  they  were  singing  all  around  him,  and  what 
terrible  words  rang  out,  only  to  excite  peals  of 
laughter.  In  the  public-houses,  the  workmen's  wives, 
the  wives  of  small  tradesmen,  decently  dressed  in 
black,  were  drinking  their  faces  to  a  flaming  red, 
and  urging  their  husbands  to  drink  more.  Beauti- 
ful young  women,  flushed  and  laughing,  put  their 
arms  round  the  men's  necks  and  kissed  them,  and 
then  held  up  the  glass  to  their  lips.  In  the  dark 
corners,  at  the  openings  of  side  streets,  the  children 
were  talking  together,  instructing  each  other,  whis- 
pering what  they  had  seen ;  a  boy  of  fifteen  was  ply- 
ing a  girl  of  twelve  with  whisky,  and  presently  they 

206 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

crept  away.  Lucian  passed  them  as  they  turned 
to  go,  and  both  looked  at  him.  The  boy  laughed, 
and  the  girl  smiled  quietly.  It  was  above  all  in 
the  faces  around  him  that  he  saw  the  most  astound- 
ing things,  the  Bacchic  fury  unveiled  and  un- 
ashamed. To  his  eyes  it  seemed  as  if  these 
revellers  recognized  him  as  a  fellow,  and  smiled  up 
in  his  face,  aware  that  he  was  in  the  secret.  Every 
instinct  of  religion,  of  civilisation  even,  was  swept 
away;  they  gazed  at  one  another  and  at  him  ab- 
solved of  all  scruples,  children  of  the  earth  and 
nothing  more.  Now  and  then  a  couple  detached 
themselves  from  the  swarm,  and  went  away  into 
the  darkness,  answering  the  jeers  and  laughter  of 
their  friends  as  they  vanished. 

On  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  not  far  from  where 
he  was  standing,  Lucian  noticed  a  tall  and  lovely 
young  woman  who  seemed  to  be  alone.  She  was 
in  the  full  light  of  a  naphtha  flame,  and  her  bronze 
hair  and  flushed  cheeks  shone  illuminate  as  she 
veiwed  the  orgy.  She  had  dark  brown  eyes,  and 
a  strange  look  as  of  an  old  picture  in  her  face;  and 
her  eyes  brightened  with  an  argent  gleam.  He  saw 
the  revellers  nudging  each  other  and  glancing  at 
her,  and  two  or  three  young  men  went  up  and  asked 
her  to  come  for  a  walk.  She  shook  her  head  and 
said  'No  thank  you'  again  and  again,  and  seemed 
as  if  she  were  looking  for  somebody  in  the  crowd. 

Tm  expecting  a  friend,'  she  said  at  last  to  a  man 
207 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

who  proposed  a  drink  and  walk  afterwards;  and 
Lucian  wondered  what  kind  of  friend  would  ul- 
timately appear.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  him  as  he 
was  about  to  pass  on,  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

'I'll  go  for  a  walk  with  you  if  you  like;  you  just 
go  on,  and  I'll  follow  in  a  minute.' 

For  a  moment  he  looked  steadily  at  her.  He  saw 
that  the  first  glance  had  misled  him;  her  face  was 
not  flushed  with  drink  as  he  had  supposed,  but  it 
was  radiant  with  the  most  exquisite  colour,  a  red 
flame  glowed  and  died  on  her  cheek,  and  seemed 
to  palpitate  as  she  spoke.  The  head  was  set  on 
the  neck  nobly,  as  in  a  statue,  and  about  the  ears 
the  bronze  hair  strayed  into  little  curls.  She  was 
smiling  and  waiting  for  his  answer. 

He  muttered  something  about  being  very  sorry, 
and  fled  down  the  hill  out  of  the  orgy,  from  the  noise 
of  roaring  voices  and  the  glitter  of  the  great  lamps 
very  slowly  swinging  in  the  blast  of  wind.  He  knew 
that  he  had  touched  the  brink  of  utter  destruction; 
there  was  death  in  the  woman's  face,  and  she  had 
indeed  summoned  him  to  the  Sabbath.  Somehow  he 
had  been  able  to  refuse  on  the  instant,  but  if  he  had 
delayed  he  knew  he  would  have  abandoned  himself 
to  her  body  and  soul.  He  locked  himself  in  his 
room  and  lay  trembling  on  the  bed,  wondering  if 
some  subtle  sympathy  had  shown  the  woman  her 
perfect  companion.  He  looked  in  the  glass,  not  ex- 
pecting now  to  see  certain  visible  and  outward  signs, 

208 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

but  searching  for  the  meaning  of  that  strange  glance 
that  lit  up  his  eyes.  He  had  grown  even  thinner 
than  before  in  the  last  few  months,  and  his  cheeks 
were  wasted  with  hunger  and  sorrow,  but  there  were 
still  about  his  features  the  suggestion  of  a  curious 
classic  grace,  and  the  look  as  of  a  faun  who  has 
stayed  from  the  vineyards  and  olive  gardens.  He 
had  broken  away,  but  now  he  felt  the  mesh  of  her 
net  about  him,  a  desire  for  her  that  was  a  madness 
as  if  she  held  every  nerve  in  his  body  and  drew  him 
to  her,  to  her  mystic  world,  to  the  rosebush  where 
every  flower  was  a  flame. 

He  dreamed  all  night  of  the  perilous  things  he 
had  refused,  and  it  was  loss  to  awake  in  the  morn- 
ing, pain  to  return  to  the  world.  The  frost  had 
broken  and  the  fog  had  rolled  away,  and  the  grey 
street  was  filled  with  a  clear  grey  light.  Again 
he  looked  out  on  the  long  dull  sweep  of  the  mo- 
notonous houses,  hidden  for  the  past  weeks  by  a 
curtain  of  mist.  Heavy  rain  had  fallen  in  the  night, 
and  the  garden  rails  were  still  dripping,  the  roofs 
still  dark  with  wet,  all  down  the  line  the  dingy  white 
blinds  were  drawn  in  the  upper  windows.  Not  a 
soul  walked  the  street;  every  one  was  asleep  after 
the  exertions  of  the  night  before ;  even  on  the  main 
road  it  was  only  at  intervals  that  some  straggler 
paddled  by.  Presently  a  woman  in  a  brown  ulster 
shuffled  off  on  some  errand,  then  a  man  in  shirt- 
sleeves poked  out  his  head,  holding  the  door  half- 

209 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

open,  and  stared  up  at  a  window  opposite.  After 
a  few  minutes  he  slunk  in  again,  and  three  loafers 
came  slouching  down  the  street,  eager  for  mischief 
or  beastliness  of  some  sort.  They  chose  a  house 
that  seemed  rather  smarter  than  the  rest,  and,  ir- 
ritated by  the  neat  curtains,  the  little  grass  plot 
with  its  dwarf  shrub,  one  of  the  ruffians  drew  out 
a  piece  of  chalk  and  wrote  some  words  on  the 
front  door.  His  friends  kept  watch  for  him,  and 
the  adventure  achieved,  all  three  bolted,  bellow- 
ing yahoo  laughter  Then  a  bell  began,  tang,  tang, 
tang,  and  here  and  there  children  appeared  on  their 
way  to  Sunday-school,  and  the  chapel  'teachers'  went 
by  with  verjuice  eyes  and  lips,  scowling  at  the  little 
boy  who  cried  'Piper,  piper!'  On  the  main  road 
many  respectable  people,  the  men  shining  and  ill- 
fitted,  the  women  hideously  bedizened,  passed  in 
the  direction  of  the  Independent  nightmare,  the 
stuccoed  thing  with  Doric  columns,  but  on  the  whole 
life  was  stagnant.  Presently  Lucian  smelt  the 
horrid  fumes  of  roast  beef  and  cabbage;  the  early 
risers  were  preparing  the  one-o'clock  meal,  but  many 
lay  in  bed  and  put  off  dinner  till  three,  with  the 
effect  of  prolonging  the  cabbage  atmosphere  into 
the  late  afternoon.  A  drizzly  rain  began  as  the 
people  were  coming  out  of  church,  and  the  mothers 
of  little  boys  in  velvet  and  little  girls  in  foolishness 
of  every  kind  were  impelled  to  slap  their  offspring, 
and  to  threaten  them  with  father.  Then  the  torpor 

210 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

of  beef  and  cabbage  settled  down  on  the  street;  in 
some  houses  they  snored  and  read  the  Parish  Mag- 
azine, in  some  they  snorted  and  read  the  murders 
and  collected  filth  of  the  week;  but  the  only  move- 
ment of  the  afternoon  was  a  second  procession  of 
children,  now  bloated  and  distended  with  food, 
again  answering  the  summons  of  tang,  tang,  tang. 
On  the  main  road  the  trams,  laden  with  impossible 
people,  went  humming  to  and  fro,  and  young  men 
who  wore  bright  blue  ties  cheerfully  haw-hawed  and 
smoked  penny  cigars.  They  annoyed  the  shiny  and 
respectable  and  verjuice-lipped,  not  by  the  frightful 
stench  of  the  cigars,  but  because  they  were  cheer- 
ful on  Sunday.  By  and  by  the  children,  having 
heard  about  Moses  in  the  Bulrushes  and  Daniel  in 
the  Lion's  Den,  came  straggling  home  in  an  evil 
humour.  And  all  the  day  it  was  as  if  on  a  grey 
sheet  gray  shadows  flickered,  passing  by. 

And  in  the  rose-garden  every  flower  was  a  flame ! 
He  thought  in  symbols,  using  the  Persian  imagery 
of  a  dusky  court,  surrounded  by  white  cloisters, 
gilded  by  gates  of  bronze.  The  stars  came  out, 
the  sky  glowed  a  darker  violet,  but  the  cloistered 
wall,  the  fantastic  trellises  in  stone,  shone  whiter. 
It  was  like  a  hedge  of  may-blossom,  like  a  lily  within 
a  cup  of  lapis-lazuli,  like  sea-foam  tossed  on  the 
heaving  sea  at  dawn.  Always  those  white  cloisters 
trembled  with  the  lute  music,  always  the  garden 
sang  with  the  clear  fountain,  rising  and  falling  in 

211 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  mysterious  dusk.  And  there  was  a  singing 
voice  stealing  through  the  white  lattices  and  the 
bronze  gates,  a  soft  voice  chanting  of  the  Lover 
and  the  Beloved,  of  the  Vineyard,  of  the  Gate  and 
the  Way.  Oh!  the  language  was  unknown;  but 
the  music  of  the  refrain  returned  again,  and  again, 
swelling  and  trembling  through  the  white  nets  of  the 
latticed  cloisters.  And  every  rose  in  the  dusky  air 
was  a  flame. 

The  shadowy  air  was  full  of  the  perfume  of 
eastern  things.  The  attar  of  roses  must  have  been 
sprinkled  in  the  fountain;  the  odour  seemed  to  pal- 
pitate in  the  nostrils,  as  the  music  and  singing  on 
the  ears.  A  thin  spire  of  incense  rose  from  a  rich 
brass  censer,  and  floated  in  filmy  whorls  across  the 
oleander  blossoms.  And  there  were  hints  of 
strange  drugs,  the  scent  of  opium  and  asrar,  breath- 
ing deep  reverie  and  the  joy  of  long  meditation. 
The  white  walls,  the  latticed  cloisters  of  the  court, 
seemed  to  advance  and  retreat,  to  flush  and  pale  as 
the  stars  brightened  and  grew  larger  into  silver 
worlds;  all  the  faerywork  of  the  chancelled  stone 
hovered  and  glimmered  beneath  the  sky,  dark  as 
the  violet,  dark  as  wine.  The  singing  voice  swelled 
to  rapture  and  passion  as  the  song  chanted  the 
triumph  of  the  Lover  and  the  Beloved,  how  their 
souls  were  melted  together  as  the  juice  of  the  grape 
is  mingled  in  the  vintage,  how  they  found  the  Gate 
and  the  Way.  And  all  the  blossoms  in  the  dusky 

212 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

air,  all  the  flowers  in  the  garden,  all  the  roses  upon 
the  tree,  were  aflame. 

He  had  seen  the  life  which  he  expressed  by  these 
symbols  offered  to  him,  and  he  had  refused  it;  and 
he  was  alone  in  the  grey  street,  with  its  lamps  just 
twinkling  through  the  dreary  twilight,  the  blast 
of  a  ribald  chorus  sounding  from  the  main  road, 
a  doggerel  hymn  whining  from  some  parlour,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  harmonium.  He  wondered 
why  he  had  turned  away  from  that  woman  who 
knew  all  secrets,  in  whose  eyes  were  all  the  myster- 
ies. He  opened  the  desk  of  his  bureau,  and  was  con- 
fronted by  the  heap  and  litter  of  papers,  lying  in 
confusion  as  he  had  left  them.  He  knew  that  there 
was  a  motive  of  his  refusal;  he  had  been  unwilling 
to  abandon  all  hope  of  the  work.  The  glory  and 
the  torment  of  his  ambition  glowed  upon  him  as  he 
looked  at  the  manuscript;  it  seemed  so  pitiful  that 
such  a  single  desire  should  be  thwarted.  He  was 
aware  that  if  he  chose  to  sit  down  now  before  the 
desk  he  could,  in  a  manner,  write  easily  enough — 
he  could  produce  a  tale  which  would  be  formally 
well  constructed  and  certain  of  favorable  recep- 
tion. And  it  would  not  be  the  utterly  common- 
place, entirely  hopeless  favourite  of  the  circulating 
library;  it  would  stand  in  those  ranks  where  the 
real  thing  is  skilfully  counterfeited,  amongst  the 
books  which  give  the  reader  his  orgy  of  emotions, 
and  yet  contrive  to  be  superior,  and  'art,'  in  his 

213 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

opinion.  Lucian  had  often  observed  this  species 
of  triumph,  and  had  noted  the  acclamation  that 
never  failed  the  clever  sham,  the  literary  lie. 
Romola,  for  example,  had  made  the  great  host  of 
the  serious,  the  portentous,  shout  for  joy,  while 
the  real  book,  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  was 
a  comparative  failure. 

He  knew  that  he  could  write  a  Romola;  but  he 
thought  the  art  of  counterfeiting  half-crowns  less 
detestable  than  this  shabby  trick  of  imitating 
literature.  He  had  refused  definitely  to  enter  the 
atelier  of  the  gentleman  who  pleased  his  clients 
by  ingeniously  simulating  the  grain  of  walnut;  and 
though  he  had  seen  the  old  oaken  aumbry  kicked 
out  contemptuously  into  the  farmyard,  serving  per- 
haps the  necessities  of  hens  or  pigs,  he  would  not 
apprentice  himself  to  the  masters  of  veneer.  He 
paced  up  and  down  the  room,  glancing  now  and 
again  at  his  papers,  and  wondering  if  there  were 
no  hope  for  him.  A  great  thing  he  could  never 
do,  but  he  had  longed  to  do  a  true  thing,  to  imagine 
sincere  and  genuine  pages. 

He  was  stirred  again  to  this  fury  for  the  work 
by  the  event  of  the  evening  before,  by  all  that  had 
passed  through  his  mind  since  the  melancholy  dawn. 
The  lurid  picture  of  that  fiery  street,  the  flaming 
shops  and  flaming  glances,  all  its  wonders  and 
horrors,  lit  by  the  naphtha  flares  and  by  the  burn- 
ing souls,  had  possessed  him;  and  the  noises,  the 

214 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

shriek  and  the  whisper,  the  jangling  rattle  of  the 
piano-organ,  the  long-continued  scream  of  the 
butcher  as  he  dabbled  in  the  blood,  the  lewd  litany 
of  the  singers,  these  seemed  to  be  resolved  into  an 
infernal  overture,  loud  with  the  expectation  of  lust 
and  death.  And  how  the  spectacle  was  set  in  the 
cloud  of  dark  night,  a  phantom  play  acted  on  that 
fiery  stage,  beneath  those  hideous  brassy  lamps,  very 
slowly  swinging  in  a  violent  blast.  As  all  the 
medley  of  outrageous  sights  and  sounds  now  fused 
themselves  within  his  brain  into  one  clear  impres- 
sion, it  seemed  that  he  had  indeed  witnessed  and 
acted  in  a  drama,  that  all  the  scene  had  been  pre- 
pared and  vested  for  him,  and  that  the  choric  songs 
he  had  heard  were  but  preludes  to  a  greater  act. 
For  in  that  woman  was  the  consummation  and  ca- 
tastrophe of  it  all,  and  the  whole  stage  waited  for 
their  meeting.  He  fancied  that  after  this  the 
voices  and  the  lights  died  away,  that  the  crowd  sank 
swiftly  into  the  darkness,  and  that  the  street  was  at 
once  denuded  of  the  great  lamps  and  of  all  its  awful 
scenic  apparatus. 

Again,  he  thought,  the  same  mystery  would  be 
represented  before  him;  suddenly  on  some  dark  and 
gloomy  night,  as  he  wandered  lonely  on  a  deserted 
road,  the  wind  hurrying  before  him,  suddenly  a  turn 
would  bring  him  again  upon  the  fiery  stage,  and  the 
antique  drama  would  be  reenacted.  He  would  be 
drawn  to  the  same  place,  to  find  that  woman  still 

215 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

standing  there;  again  he  would  watch  the  rose 
radiant  and  palpitating  upon  her  cheek,  the  argent 
gleam  in  her  brown  eyes,  the  bronze  curls  gilding 
the  white  splendour  of  her  neck.  And  for  the 
second  time  she  would  freely  offer  herself.  He 
could  hear  the  wail  of  the  singers  swelling  to  a 
shriek,  and  see  the  dusky  dancers  whirling  round  in 
a  faster  frenzy,  and  the  naphtha  flares  tinged  with 
red,  as  the  woman  and  he  went  away  into  the  dark, 
into  the  cloistered  court  where  every  flower  was  a 
flame,  whence  he  would  never  come  out. 

His  only  escape  was  in  the  desk;  he  might  find 
salvation  if  could  again  hide  his  heart  in  the  heap 
and  litter  of  papers,  and  again  be  rapt  by  the 
cadence  of  a  phrase.  He  threw  open  his  window 
and  looked  out  on  the  dim  world  and  the  glimmering 
amber  lights.  He  resolved  that  he  would  rise  early 
in  the  morning,  and  seek  once  more  for  his  true  life 
in  the  work. 

But  there  was  a  strange  thing.  There  was  a 
little  bottle  on  the  mantelpiece,  a  bottle  of  dark 
blue  glass,  and  he  trembled  and  shuddered  before 
it,  as  if  it  were  a  fetish. 


216 


VII 

IT  was  very  dark  in  the  room.     He  seemed  by 
slow  degrees  to  awake  from  a  long  and  heavy 
torpor,  from  an  utter  forgetfulness,  and  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  he  could  scarcely  discern  the  pale 
whiteness  of  the  paper  on  the  desk  before  him.     He 
remembered  something  of  a  gloomy  winter  after- 
noon, of  driving  rain,  of  gusty  wind:  he  had  fallen 
asleep  over  his  work,  no  doubt,  and  the  night  had 
come  down. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  wondering  whether  it 
were  late;  his  eyes  were  half  closed  and  he  did  not 
make  the  effort  and  rouse  himself.  He  could  hear 
the  stormy  noise  of  the  wind,  and  the  sound  re- 
minded him  of  the  half-forgotten  days.  He 
thought  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  old  rectory,  and 
the  great  elms  that  surrounded  it.  There  was 
something  pleasant  in  the  consciousness  that  he  was 
still  half  dreaming;  he  knew  he  could  wake  up  when- 
ever he  pleased,  but  for  the  moment  he  amused  him- 
self by  the  pretense  that  he  was  a  little  boy  again, 
tired  with  his  rambles  and  the  keen  air  of  the  hills. 
He  remembered  how  he  would  sometimes  wake  up 
in  the  dark  at  midnight,  and  listen  sleepily  for  a 

217 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

moment  to  the  rush  of  the  wind  straining  and  crying 
amongst  the  elms,  and  hear  it  beat  upon  the  walls, 
and  then  he  would  fall  to  dreams  again,  happy  in 
his  warm,  snug  bed. 

The  wind  blew  louder,  and  the  windows  rattled. 
He  half  opened  his  eyes  and  shut  them  again,  de- 
termined to  cherish  that  sensation  of  long  ago. 
He  felt  tired  and  heavy  with  sleep;  he  imagined 
that  he  was  exhausted  by  some  effort;  he  had,  per- 
haps, been  writing  furiously,  without  rest.  He 
could  not  recollect  at  the  instant  what  the  work 
had  been;  it  would  be  delightful  to  read  the  pages 
when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  bestir  himself. 

Surely  that  was  the  noise  of  boughs,  swaying 
and  grinding  in  the  wind.  He  remembered  one 
night  at  home  when  such  a  sound  had  roused  him 
suddenly  from  a  deep  sweet  sleep.  There  was  a 
rushing  and  beating  as  of  wings  upon  the  air,  and 
a  heavy  dreary  noise,  like  thunder  far  away  upon 
the  mountain.  He  had  got  out  of  bed  and  looked 
from  behind  the  blind  to  see  what  was  abroad.  He 
remembered  the  strange  sight  he  had  seen,  and  he 
pretended  it  would  be  just  the  same  if  he  cared 
to  look  out  now.  There  were  clouds  flying  awfully 
from  before  the  moon,  and  a  pale  light  that  made 
the  familiar  land  look  strange  and  terrible.  The 
blast  of  wind  came  with  a  great  shriek,  and  the 
trees  tossed  and  bowed  and  quivered;  the  wood 
was  scourged  and  horrible,  and  the  night  air  was 

218 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ghastly  with  a  confused  tumult,  and  voices  as  of  a 
host.  A  huge  black  cloud  rolled  across  the  heaven 
from  the  west  and  covered  up  the  moon,  and  there 
came  a  torrent  of  bitter  hissing  rain. 

It  was  all  a  vivid  picture  to  him  as  he  sat  in  his 
chair,  unwilling  to  wake.  Even  as  he  let  his  mind 
stray  back  to  that  night  of  the  past  years,  the  rain 
beat  sharply  on  the  window-panes,  and  though  there 
were  no  trees  in  the  grey  suburban  street,  he  heard 
distinctly  the  crash  of  boughs.  He  wandered 
vaguely  from  thought  to  thought,  groping  indis- 
tinctly among  memories,  like  a  man  trying  to  cross 
from  door  to  door  in  a  darkened  unfamiliar  room. 
But,  no  doubt,  if  he  were  to  look  out,  by  some  magic 
the  whole  scene  would  be  displayed  before  him. 
He  would  not  see  the  curve  of  monotonous  two- 
storied  houses,  with  here  and  there  a  white  blind, 
a  patch  of  light,  and  shadows  appearing  and  vanish- 
ing, not  the  rain  plashing  in  the  muddy  road,  not 
the  amber  of  the  gas-lamp  opposite,  but  the  wild 
moonlight  poured  on  the  dearly  loved  country;  far 
away  the  dim  circle  of  the  hills  and  woods  and 
beneath  him  the  tossing  trees  about  the  lawn,  and 
the  wood  heaving  under  the  fury  of  the  wind. 

He  smiled  to  himself,  amidst  his  lazy  medita- 
tions, to  think  how  real  it  seemed,  and  yet  it  was  all 
far  away,  the  scenery  of  an  old  play  long  ended  and 
forgotten.  It  was  strange  that  after  all  these  years 
of  trouble  and  work  and  change  he  should  be  in 

219 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

any  sense  the  same  person  as  that  little  boy  peep- 
ing out,  half  frightened,  from  the  rectory  window. 
It  was  as  if  on  looking  in  the  glass  one  should  see  a 
stranger,  and  yet  know  that  the  image  was  a  true 
reflection. 

The  memory  of  the  old  home  recalled  his  father 
and  mother  to  him,  and  he  wondered  whether  his 
mother  would  come  if  he  were  to  cry  out  suddenly. 
One  night,  on  just  such  a  night  as  this,  when  a  great 
storm  blew  from  the  mountain,  a  tree  had  fallen  with 
a  crash  and  a  bough  had  struck  the  roof,  and  he 
awoke  in  a  fright,  calling  for  his  mother.  She  had 
come  and  had  comforted  him,  soothing  him  to  sleep, 
and  now  he  shut  his  eyes,  seeing  her  face  shining 
in  the  uncertain  flickering  candle  light,  as  she  bent 
over  his  bed.  He  could  not  think  she  had  died; 
the  memory  was  but  a  part  of  the  evil  dreams  that 
had  come  afterwards. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  fallen  asleep 
and  dreamed  sorrow  and  agony,  and  he  wished 
to  forget  all  the  things  of  trouble.  He  would  re- 
turn to  happy  days,  to  the  beloved  land,  to  the 
dear  and  friendly  paths  across  the  fields.  There 
was  the  paper,  white  before  him,  and  when  he 
chose  to  stir,  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  read- 
ing his  work.  He  could  not  quite  recollect  what 
he  had  been  about,  but  he  was  somehow  conscious 
that  he  had  been  successful  and  had  brought  some 
long  labour  to  a  worthy  ending.  Presently  he  would 

220 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

light  the  gas,  and  enjoy  the  satisfaction  that  only 
the  work  could  give  him,  but  for  the  time  he  pre- 
ferred to  linger  in  the  darkness,  and  to  think  of  him- 
self as  straying  from  stile  to  stile  through  the 
scented  meadows,  and  listening  to  the  bright  brook 
that  sang  to  the  alders. 

It  was  winter  now,  for  he  heard  the  rain  and  the 
wind,  and  the  swaying  of  the  trees,  but  in  those 
old  days  how  sweet  the  summer  had  been.  The 
great  hawthorn  bush  in  blossom,  like  a  white  cloud 
upon  the  earth,  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  twilight, 
he  had  lingered  in  the  enclosed  valley  to  hear  the 
nightingale,  a  voice  swelling  out  from  the  rich 
gloom,  from  the  trees  that  grew  around  the  well. 
The  scent  of  the  meadowsweet  was  blown  to  him 
across  the  bridge  of  years,  and  with  it  came  the 
dream  and  the  hope  and  the  longing,  and  the  after- 
glow red  in  the  sky,  and  the  marvel  of  the  earth. 
There  was  a  quiet  walk  that  he  knew  so  well;  one 
went  up  from  a  little  green  by-road,  following  an 
unnamed  brooklet  scarce  a  foot  wide,  but  yet 
wandering  like  a  river,  gurgling  over  its  pebbles, 
with  its  dwarf  bushes  shading  the  pouring  water. 
One  went  through  the  meadow  grass,  and  came  to 
the  larch  wood  that  grew  from  hill  to  hill  across 
the  stream,  and  shone  a  brilliant  tender  green,  and 
sent  vague  sweet  spires  to  the  flushing  sky.  Through 
the  wood  the  path  wound,  turning  and  dipping,  and 
beneath,  the  brown  fallen  needles  of  last  year  were 

221 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

soft  and  thick,  and  the  resinous  cones  gave  out  their 
odour  as  the  warm  night  advanced,  and  the  shadows 
darkened.  It  was  quite  still ;  but  he  stayed,  and  the 
faint  song  of  the  brooklet  sounded  like  the  echo  of 
a  river  beyond  the  mountains.  How  strange  it  was 
to  look  into  the  wood,  to  see  the  tall  straight  stems 
rising,  pillar-like,  and  then  the  dusk,  uncertain,  and 
then  the  blackness.  So  he  came  out  from  the  larch 
wood,  from  the  green  cloud  and  the  vague  shadow, 
into  the  dearest  of  all  hollows,  shut  in  on  one  side 
by  the  larches  and  before  him  by  high  violent  walls 
of  turf,  like  the  slopes  of  a  fort,  with  a  clear  line 
dark  against  the  twilight  sky,  and  a  weird  thorn 
bush  that  grew  large,  mysterious,  on  the  summit,  be- 
neath the  gleam  of  the  evening  star. 

And  he  retraced  his  wanderings  in  those  deep  old 
lanes  that  began  from  the  common  road  and  went 
away  towards  the  unknown,  climbing  steep  hills,  and 
piercing  the  woods  of  shadows,  and  dipping  down 
into  valleys  that  seemed  virgin,  unexplored,  secret 
for  the  foot  of  man.  He  entered  such  a  lane  not 
knowing  where  it  might  bring  him,  hoping  he  had 
found  the  way  to  fairyland,  to  the  woods  beyond 
the  world,  to  that  vague  territory  that  haunts  all 
the  dreams  of  a  boy.  He  could  not  tell  where  he 
might  be,  for  the  high  banks  rose  steep,  and  the 
great  hedges  made  a  green  vault  above.  Marvel- 
lous ferns  grew  rich  and  thick  in  the  dark  red  earth, 
fastening  their  roots  about  the  roots  of  hazel  and 

222 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

beech  and  maple,-  clustering  like  the  carven  capitals 
of  a  cathedral  pillar.  Down,  like  a  dark  shaft,  the 
lane  dipped  to  the  well  of  the  hills,  and  came 
amongst  the  limestone  rocks.  He  climbed  the  bank 
at  last,  and  looked  out  into  a  country  that  seemed 
for  a  moment  the  land  he  sought,  a  mysterious  realm 
with  unfamiliar  hills  and  valleys  and  fair  plains 
all  golden,  and  white  houses  radiant  in  the  sunset 
light. 

And  he  thought  of  the  steep  hillsides  where  the 
bracken  was  like  a  wood,  and  of  bare  places  where 
the  west  wind  sang  over  the  golden  gorse,  of  still 
circles  in  mid-lake,  of  the  poisonous  yew-tree  in 
the  middle  of  the  wood,  shedding  its  crimson  cups 
on  the  dank  earth.  How  he  lingered  by  certain 
black  waterpools  hedged  in  on  every  side  by  droop- 
ing wych-elms  and  black-stemned  alders,  watching 
the  faint  waves  widening  to  the  banks  as  a  leaf  or 
twig  dropped  from  the  trees. 

And  the  whole  air  and  wonder  of  the  ancient 
forest  came  back  to  him.  He  had  found  his  way 
to  the  river  valley,  to  the  long  lovely  hollow  be- 
tween the  hills,  and  went  up  and  up  beneath  the 
leaves  in  the  warm  hush  of  midsummer,  glancing 
back  now  and  again  through  the  green  alleys,  to  the 
river  winding  in  mystic  esses  beneath,  passing  hidden 
glens  receiving  the  streams  that  rushed  down  the 
hillside,  ice-cold  from  the  rock,  passing  the  imme- 
morial tumulus,  the  graves  where  the  legionaries 

223 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

waited  for  the  trumpet,  the  grey  farmhouses  send- 
ing the  blue  wreaths  of  wood  smoke  into  the  still 
air.  He  went  higher  and  higher,  till  at  last  he 
entered  the  long  passage  of  the  Roman  road,  and 
from  this,  the  ridge  and  summit  of  the  wood,  he 
saw  the  waves  of  green  swell  and  dip  and  sink  to- 
wards the  marshy  level  and  the  gleaming  yellow 
sea.  He  looked  on  the  surging  forest,  and  thought 
of  the  strange  deserted  city  mouldering  into  a  petty 
village  on  its  verge,  of  its  encircling  walls  melting 
into  the  turf,  of  vestiges  of  an  older  temple  which 
the  earth  had  buried  utterly. 

It  was  winter  now,  for  he  heard  the  wail  of  the 
wind,  and  a  sudden  gust  drove  the  rain  against  the 
panes,  but  he  thought  of  the  bee's  song  in  the  clover, 
of  the  foxgloves  in  full  blossom,  of  the  wild  roses, 
delicate,  enchanting,  swaying  on  a  long  stem  above 
the  hedge.  He  had  been  in  strange  places,  he  had 
known  sorrow  and  desolation,  and  had  grown  grey 
and  weary  in  the  work  of  letters,  but  he  lived  again 
in  the  sweetness,  in  the  clear  bright  air  of  early 
morning,  when  the  sky  was  blue  in  June,  and  the 
mist  rolled  like  a  white  sea  in  the  valley.  He 
laughed  when  he  recollected  that  he  had  sometimes 
fancied  himself  unhappy  in  those  days;  in  those 
days  when  he  could  be  glad  because  the  sun  shone, 
because  the  wind  blew  fresh  on  the  mountain.  On 
those  bright  days  he  had  been  glad,  looking  at  the 
fleeting  and  passing  of  the  clouds  upon  the  hills,  and 

224 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

had  gone  up  higher  on  the  broad  dome  of  the  moun- 
tain, feeling  that  joy  went  up  before  him. 

He  remembered  how,  a  boy,  he  had  dreamed  of 
love,  of  an  adorable  and  ineffable  mystery  which 
transcended  all  longing  and  desire.  The  time  had 
come  when  all  the  wonder  of  the  earth  seemed  to 
prefigure  this  alone,  when  he  found  the  symbol  of 
the  Beloved  in  hill  and  wood  and  stream,  and  every 
flower  and  every  dark  pool  discoursed  a  pure  ecstasy. 
It  was  the  longing  for  longing,  the  love  of  love,  that 
had  come  to  him  when  he  awoke  one  morning  just 
before  the  dawn,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  the  sharp 
thrill  of  passion. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  express  to  himself  the  ex- 
quisite joys  of  innocent  desire.  Even  now,  after 
troubled  years,  in  spite  of  some  dark  cloud  that 
overshadowed  the  background  of  his  thought,  the 
sweetness  of  the  boy's  imagined  pleasure  came  like 
a  perfume  into  his  reverie.  It  was  no  love  of  a 
woman  but  the  desire  of  womanhood,  the  Eros  of 
the  Unknown,  that  makes  the  heart  tremble.  He 
hardly  dreamed  that  such  a  love  could  ever  be  satis- 
fied, that  the  thirst  of  beauty  could  be  slaked.  He 
shrank  from  all  contact  of  actuality,  not  venturing 
so  much  as  to  imagine  the  inner  place  and  sanctuary 
of  the  mysteries.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  adore 
in  the  outer  court,  to  know  that  within,  in  the  sweet 
gloom,  were  the  vision  and  the  rapture,  the  altar 
and  the  sacrifice. 

225 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

He  remembered,  dimly,  the  passage  of  many 
heavy  years  since  that  time  of  hope  and  passion, 
but,  perhaps,  the  vague  shadow  would  pass  away, 
and  he  could  renew  the  boy's  thoughts,  the  unformed 
fancies  that  were  part  of  the  bright  day,  of  the 
wild  roses  in  the  hedgerow.  All  other  things  should 
be  laid  aside,  he  would  let  them  trouble  him  no 
more  after  this  winter  night.  He  saw  now  that 
from  the  first  he  had  allowed  his  imagination  to  be- 
wilder him,  to  create  a  fantastic  world  in  which  he 
suffered,  moulding  innocent  forms  into  terror  and 
dismay.  Vividly,  he  saw  again  the  black  circle  of 
oaks,  growing  in  a  haggard  ring  upon  the  bastions 
of  the  Roman  fort.  The  noise  of  the  storm  without 
grew  louder,  and  he  thought  how  the  wind  had  come 
up  the  valley  with  the  sound  of  a  scream,  how  a 
great  tree  had  ground  its  boughs  together,  shudder- 
ing before  the  violent  blast.  Clear  and  distinct,  as 
if  he  were  standing  now  in  the  lane,  he  saw  the 
steep  slopes  surging  from  the  valley,  and  the  black 
crown  of  the  oaks  set  against  the  flaming  sky, 
against  a  blaze  and  glow  of  light  as  if  great  furnace 
doors  were  opened.  He  saw  the  fire  as  it  were 
smitten  about  the  bastions,  about  the  heaped  mounds 
that  guarded  the  fort,  and  the  crooked  evil  boughs 
seemed  to  writhe  in  the  blast  of  flame  that  beat  from 
heaven.  Strangely  with  the  sight  of  the  burning 
fort  mingled  the  impression  of  a  dim  white  shape 
floating  up  the  dusk  of  the  lane  towards  him,  and 

226 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

he  saw  across  the  valley  of  years  a  girl's  face,  a 
momentary  apparition  that  shone  and  vanished 
away. 

Then  there  was  a  memory  of  another  day,  of 
violent  summer,  of  white  farmhouse  walls  blazing 
in  the  sun,  and  a  far  call  from  the  reapers  in  the 
cornfields.  He  had  climbed  the  steep  slope  and 
penetrated  the  matted  thicket  and  lay  in  the  heat 
alone  on  the  soft  short  grass  that  grew  within  the 
fort.  There  was  a  cloud  of  madness  and  confu- 
sion, of  broken  dreams  that  had  no  meaning  or  clue 
but  only  an  indefinable  horror  and  defilement.  He 
had  fallen  asleep  as  he  gazed  at  the  knotted  fan- 
tastic boughs  of  the  stunted  brake  about  him,  and 
when  he  woke  he  was  ashamed,  and  fled  away  fear- 
ing that  'they'  would  pursue  him.  He  did  not 
know  who  'they'  were,  but  it  seemed  as  if  a 
woman's  face  watched  him  from  between  the  matted 
boughs,  and  that  she  summoned  to  her  side  awful 
companions  who  had  never  grown  old  through  all 
the  ages. 

He  looked  up,  it  seemed,  at  a  smiling  face  that 
bent  over  him,  as  he  sat  in  the  cool  dark  kitchen 
of  the  old  farmhouse,  and  wondered  why  the  sweet- 
ness of  those  red  lips  and  the  kindness  of  the  eyes 
mingled  with  the  nightmare  in  the  fort,  with  the 
horrible  Sabbath  he  had  imagined  as  he  lay  sleep- 
ing on  the  hot  soft  turf.  He  had  allowed  these 
disturbed  fancies,  all  this  mad  wrack  of  terror  and 

227 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

shame  that  he  had  gathered  to  his  mind,  to  trouble 
him  for  too  long  a  time;  presently  he  would  light 
up  the  room,  and  leave  all  the  old  darkness  of  his 
life  behind  him,  and  from  henceforth  he  would 
walk  in  the  day. 

He  could  still  distinguish,  though  very  vaguely, 
the  pile  of  papers  before  him,  and  he  remembered, 
now,  that  he  had  finished  a  long  task  that  after- 
noon, before  he  fell  asleep.  He  could  not  trouble 
himself  to  recollect  the  exact  nature  of  the  work, 
but  he  was  sure  that  he  had  done  well;  in  a  few 
minutes,  perhaps,  he  would  strike  a  match,  and  read 
the  title,  and  amuse  himself  with  his  own  forget- 
fulness.  But  the  sight  of  the  papers  lying  there  in 
order  made  him  think  of  his  beginnings,  of  those 
first  unhappy  efforts  which  were  so  impossible  and 
so  hopeless.  He  saw  himself  bending  over  the  table 
in  the  old  familiar  room,  desperately  scribbling, 
and  then  laying  down  his  pen  dismayed  at  the  sad 
results  on  the  page.  It  was  late  at  night,  his  father 
had  been  long  in  bed,  and  the  house  was  still.  The 
fire  was  almost  out,  with  only  a  dim  glow  here  and 
there  amongst  the  cinders,  and  the  room  was  grow- 
ing chilly.  He  rose  at  last  from  his  work  and 
looked  out  on  a  dim  earth  and  a  dark  and  cloudy 
sky. 

Night  after  night  he  had  laboured  on,  persever- 
ing in  his  effort,  even  through  the  cold  sickness  of 
despair,  when  every  line  was  doomed  as  it  was 

228 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

made.  Now,  with  the  consciousness  that  he  knew 
at  least  the  conditions  of  literature,  and  that  many 
years  of  thought  and  practice  had  given  him  some 
sense  of  language,  he  found  these  early  struggles 
both  pathetic  and  astonishing.  He  could  not  under- 
stand how  he  had  persevered  so  stubbornly,  how 
he  had  had  the  heart  to  begin  a  fresh  page  when  so 
many  folios  of  blotted,  painful  effort  lay  torn,  de- 
rided, impossible  in  their  utter  failure.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  it  must  have  been  a  miracle  or  an  in- 
fernal possession,  a  species  of  madness,  that  had 
driven  him  on,  every  day  disappointed,  and  every 
day  hopeful. 

And  yet  there  was  a  joyous  side  to  the  illusion. 
In  these  dry  days  that  he  lived  in,  when  he  had 
bought,  by  a  long  experience  and  by  countless  hours 
of  misery,  a  knowledge  of  his  limitations,  of  the 
vast  gulf  that  yawned  between  the  conception  and 
the  work,  it  was  pleasant  to  think  of  a  time  when 
all  things  were  possible,  when  the  most  splendid 
design  seemed  an  affair  of  a  few  weeks.  Now  he 
had  come  to  a  frank  acknowledgment;  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  he  judged  every  book  wholly  im- 
possible till  the  last  line  of  it  was  written,  and  he 
had  learnt  patience,  the  art  of  sighing  and  putting 
the  fine  scheme  away  in  the  pigeon-hole  of  what 
could  never  be.  But  to  think  of  those  days !  Then 
one  could  plot  out  a  book  that  should  be  more 
curious  than  Rabelais,  and  jot  down  the  outlines  of 

229 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

a  romance  to  surpass  Cervantes,  and  design  renais- 
sance tragedies  and  volumes  of  contes,  and  comedies 
of  the  Restoration;  everything  was  to  be  done,  and 
the  masterpiece  was  always  the  rainbow  cup,  a  little 
way  before  him. 

He  touched  the  manuscript  on  the  desk,  and  that 
feeling  of  the  pages  seemed  to  restore  all  the  papers 
that  had  been  torn  so  long  ago.  It  was  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  silent  room  that  returned,  thj  light 
of  the  shaded  candle  falling  on  the  abandoned 
leaves.  This  had  been  painfully  excogitated  while 
the  snowstorm  whirled  about  the  lawn  and  filled  the 
lanes,  this  was  of  the  summer  night,  this  of  the 
harvest  moon  rising  like  a  fire  from  the  tithebarn  on 
the  hill.  How  well  he  remembered  those  half-dozen 
pages  of  which  he  had  one  been  so  proud;  he  had 
thought  out  the  sentences  one  evening,  while  he 
leaned  on  the  foot-bridge  and  watched  the  brook 
swim  across  the  road.  Every  word  smelt  of  the 
meadow-sweet  that  grew  thick  upon  the  banks ;  now, 
as  he  recalled  the  cadence  and  the  phrase  that  had 
seemed  so  charming,  he  saw  again  the  ferns  be- 
neath the  vaulted  roots  of  the  beech,  and  the  green 
light  of  the  glowworm  in  the  hedge. 

And  in  the  west  the  mountains  swelled  to  a  great 
dome,  and  on  the  dome  was  a  mound,  the  memorial 
of  some  forgotten  race,  that  grew  dark  and  large 
against  the  red  sky,  when  the  sun  set.  He  had 
lingered  below  it  in  the  solitude,  amongst  the  winds, 

230 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

at  evening,  far  away  from  home ;  and  oh,  the  labour 
and  the  vain  efforts  to  make  the  form  of  it  and  the 
awe  of  it  in  prose,  to  write  the  hush  of  the  vast 
hill,  and  the  sadness  of  the  world  below  sinking 
into  the  night,  and  the  mystery,  the  suggestion  of 
the  rounded  hillock,  huge  against  the  magic  sky. 

He  had  tried  to  sing  in  words  the  music  that  the 
brook  sang,  and  the  sound  of  the  October  wind 
rustling  through  the  brown  bracken  on  the  hill. 
How  many  pages  he  had  covered  in  the  effort  to 
show  a  white  winter  world,  a  sun  without  warmth 
in  a  grey-blue  sky,  all  the  fields,  all  the  land  white 
and  shining,  and  one  high  summit  where  the  dark 
pines  towered,  still  in  the  still  afternoon,  in  the 
pale  violet  air. 

To  win  the  secret  of  words,  to  make  a  phrase 
that  would  murmur  of  summer  and  the  bee,  to  sum- 
mon the  wind  into  a  sentence,  to  conjure  the  odour 
of  the  night  into  the  surge  and  fall  and  harmony 
of  a  line;  this  was  the  tale  of  the  long  evenings,  of 
the  candle  flame  white  upon  the  paper  and  the  eager 
pen. 

He  remembered  that  in  some  fantastic  book  he 
had  seen  a  bar  or  two  of  music,  and  beneath,  the  in- 
scription that  here  was  the  musical  expression  of 
Westminster  Abbey.  His  boyish  effort  seemed 
hardly  less  ambitious,  and  he  no  longer  believed  that 
language  could  present  the  melody  and  the  awe  and 
the  loveliness  of  the  earth.  He  had  long  known 

231 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

that  he,  at  all  events,  would  have  to  be  content 
with  a  far  approach,  with  a  few  broken  notes  that 
might  suggest,  perhaps,  the  magistral  everlasting 
song  of  the  hill  and  the  streams. 

But  in  those  far  days  the  impossible  was  but  a 
part  of  the  wonderland  that  lay  before  him,  of  the 
world  beyond  the  wood  and  the  mountain.  All  was 
to  be  conquered,  all  was  to  be  achieved ;  he  had  but 
to  make  the  journey  and  he  would  find  the  golden 
world  and  the  golden  word,  and  hear  those  songs 
that  the  sirens  sang.  He  touched  the  manuscript; 
whatever  it  was,  it  was  the  result  of  painful  labour 
and  disappointment,  not  of  the  old  flush  of  hope, 
but  it  came  of  weary  days,  of  correction  and  re- 
correction.  It  might  be  good  in  its  measure;  but 
afterwards  he  would  write  no  more  for  a  time.  He 
would  go  back  again  to  the  happy  world  of  master- 
pieces, to  the  dreams  of  great  and  perfect  books, 
written  in  an  ecstasy. 

Like  a  dark  cloud  from  the  sea  came  the  mem- 
ory of  the  attempt  he  had  made,  of  the  poor  piteous 
history  that  had  once  embittered  his  life.  He  sighed 
and  said  alas,  thinking  of  his  folly,  of  the  hours 
when  he  was  shaken  with  futile,  miserable  rage. 
Some  silly  person  in  London  had  made  his  manu- 
script more  saleable  and  had  sold  it  without  render- 
ing an  account  of  the  profits,  and  for  that  he  had 
been  ready  to  curse  humanity.  Black,  horrible,  as 

232 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  memory  of  a  stormy  day,  the  rage  of  his  heart 
returned  to  his  mind,  and  he  covered  his  eyes,  en- 
deavouring to  darken  the  picture  of  terror  and  hate 
that  shone  before  him.  He  tried  to  drive  it  all 
out  of  his  thought,  it  vexed  him  to  remember  these 
foolish  trifles;  the  trick  of  a  publisher,  the  small 
pomposities  and  malignancies  of  the  country  folk, 
the  cruelty  of  a  village  boy,  had  inflamed  him  almost 
to  the  pitch  of  madness.  His  heart  had  burnt  with 
fury,  and  when  he  looked  up  the  sky  was  blotched, 
and  scarlet  as  if  it  rained  blood. 

Indeed  he  had  almost  believed  that  blood  had 
rained  upon  him,  and  cold  blood  from  a  sacrifice  in 
heaven;  his  face  was  wet  and  chill  and  dripping,  and 
he  had  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and 
looked  at  it.  A  red  cloud  had  seemed  to  swell  over 
the  hill,  and  grow  great,  and  come  near  to  him;  he 
was  but  an  ace  removed  from  raging  madness. 

It  had  almost  come  to  that;  the  drift  and  the 
breath  of  the  scarlet  cloud  had  well-nigh  touched 
him.  It  was  strange  that  he  had  been  so  deeply 
troubled  by  such  little  things,  and  strange  how  after 
all  the  years  he  could  still  recall  the  anguish  and 
rage  and  hate  that  shook  his  soul  as  with  a  spiritual 
tempest. 

The  memory  of  all  that  evening  was  wild  and 
confused;  he  resolved  that  it  should  vex  him  no 
more,  that  now,  for  the  last  time,  he  would  let  him- 

233 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

self  be  tormented  by  the  past.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
would  rise  to  a  new  life,  and  forget  all  the  storms 
that  had  gone  over  him. 

Curiously,  every  detail  was  distinct  and  clear  in 
his  brain.  The  figure  of  the  doctor  driving  home, 
and  the  sounds  of  the  few  words  he  had  spoken 
came  to  him  in  the  darkness,  through  the  noise  of 
the  storm  and  the  pattering  of  the  rain.  Then  he 
stood  upon  the  ridge  of  the  hill  and  saw  the  smoke 
drifting  up  from  the  ragged  roofs  of  Caermaen,  in 
the  evening  calm;  he  listened  to  the  voices  mount- 
ing thin  and  clear,  in  a  weird  tone,  as  if  some  out- 
land  folk  were  speaking  in  an  unknown  tongue  of 
awful  things. 

He  saw  the  gathering  darkness,  the  mystery  of 
twilight  changing  the  huddled,  sorry  village  into 
an  unearthly  city,  into  some  dreadful  Atlantis,  in- 
habited by  a  ruined  race.  The  mist  falling  fast, 
the  gloom  that  seemed  to  issue  from  the  black 
depths  of  the  forest,  to  advance  palpably  towards 
the  walls,  were  shaped  before  him;  and  beneath, 
the  river  wound,  snake-like,  about  the  town,  swim- 
ming to  the  flood  and  glowing  in  its  still  pools  like 
molten  brass.  And  as  the  water  mirrored  the  after- 
glow and  sent  ripples  and  gouts  of  blood  against  the 
shuddering  reeds,  there  came  suddenly  the  piercing 
trumpet-call,  the  loud  reiterated  summons  that  rose 
and  fell,  that  called  and  recalled,  echoing  through 
all  the  valley,  crying  to  the  dead  as  the  last  note 

234 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

rang.  It  summoned  the  legion  from  the  river  and 
the  graves  and  the  battlefield,  the  host  floated  up 
from  the  sea,  the  centuries  swarmed  about  the 
eagles,  the  array  was  set  for  the  last  great  battle, 
behind  the  leaguer  of  the  mist. 

He  could  imagine  himself  still  wandering  through 
the  dim,  unknown,  terrible  country,  gazing  affrighted 
at  hills  and  woods  that  seemed  to  have  put  on  an 
unearthly  shape,  stumbling  amongst  the  briars  that 
caught  his  feet.  He  lost  his  way  in  a  wild  country, 
and  the  red  lights  that  blazed  up  from  the  furnace 
on  the  mountains  only  showed  him  a  mysterious 
land,  in  which  he  strayed  aghast,  with  the  sense  of 
doom  weighing  upon  him.  The  dry  mutter  of  the 
trees,  the  sound  of  an  unseen  brook,  made  him 
afraid  as  if  the  earth  spoke  of  his  sin,  and  presently 
he  was  fleeing  through  a  desolate  shadowy  wood, 
where  a  pale  light  flowed  from  the  mouldering 
stumps,  a  dream  of  light  that  shed  a  ghostly  ra- 
diance. 

And  then  again  the  dark  summit  of  the  Roman 
fort,  the  black  sheer  height  rising  above  the  valley, 
and  the  moonfire  streaming  around  the  ring  of  oaks, 
glowing  about  the  green  bastions  that  guarded  the 
thicket  and  the  inner  place. 

The  room  in  which  he  sat  appeared  the  vision, 
the  trouble  of  the  wind  and  rain  without  was  but 
illusion,  the  noise  of  the  waves  in  the  seashell. 
Passion  and  tears  and  adoration  and  the  glories  of 

235 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  summer  night  returned,  and  the  calm  sweet  face 
of  the  woman  appeared,  and  he  thrilled  at  the  soft 
touch  of  her  hand  on  his  flesh. 

She  shone  as  if  she  had  floated  down  into  the 
lane  from  the  moon  that  swam  between  films  of 
cloud  above  the  black  circle  of  the  oaks.  She  led 
him  away  from  all  terror  and  despair  and  hate, 
and  gave  herself  to  him  with  rapture,  showing  him 
love,  kissing  his  tears  away,  pillowing  his  cheek 
upon  her  breast. 

His  lips  dwelt  upon  her  lips,  his  mouth  upon  the 
breath  of  her  mouth,  her  arms  were  strained  about 
him,  and  oh !  she  charmed  him  with  her  voice,  with 
sweet  kind  words,  as  she  offered  her  sacrifice.  How 
her  scented  hair  fell  down,  and  floated  over  his  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  marvellous  fire  called  the  moon, 
and  her  lips  were  aflame,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  a 
light  on  the  hills. 

All  beautiful  womanhood  had  come  to  him  in 
the  lane.  Love  had  touched  him  in  the  dusk  and 
had  flown  away,  but  he  had  seen  the  splendour 
and  the  glory,  and  his  eyes  had  seen  the  enchanted 
light. 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

The  old  words  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  end- 
ing of  a  chant,  and  he  heard  the  music  close.  Once 

236 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

only  in  his  weary  hapless  life,  once  the  world  had 
passed  away,  and  he  had  known  her,  the  dear,  dear 
Annie,  the  symbol  of  all  mystic  womanhood. 

The  heaviness  of  languor  still  oppressed  him, 
holding  him  back  amongst  these  old  memories,  so 
that  he  could  not  stir  from  his  place.  Oddly,  there 
seemed  something  unaccustomed  about  the  darkness 
of  the  room,  as  if  the  shadows  he  had  summoned 
had  changed  the  aspect  of  the  walls.  He  was  con- 
scious that  on  this  night  he  was  not  altogether  him- 
self; fatigue  and  the  weariness  of  sleep,  and  the 
waking  vision  had  perplexed  him.  He  remembered 
how  once  or  twice  when  he  was  a  little  boy  he  had 
opened  his  eyes  on  the  midnight  darkness  startled 
by  an  uneasy  dream,  and  had  stared  with  a 
frightened  gaze  into  nothingness,  not  knowing  where 
he  was,  all  trembling,  and  breathing  quick,  till  he 
touched  the  rail  of  his  bed,  and  the  familiar  out- 
lines of  the  looking-glass  and  the  chiffonier  began 
to  glimmer  out  of  the  gloom.  So  now  he  touched 
the  pile  of  manuscript  and  the  desk  at  which  he  had 
worked  so  many  hours,  and  felt  reassured,  though 
he  smiled  at  himself,  and  he  felt  the  old  childish 
dread,  the  longing  to  cry  out  for  some  one  to  bring 
a  candle,  and  show  him  that  he  really  was  in  his 
own  room.  He  glanced  up  for  an  instant,  expect- 
ing to  see  perhaps  the  glitter  of  the  brass  gas  jet 
that  was  fixed  in  the  wall,  just  beside  his  bureau,  but 

237 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

it  was  too  dark,  and  he  could  not  rouse  himself  and 
make  the  effort  that  would  drive  the  cloud  and  the 
muttering  thoughts  away. 

He  leant  back  again,  picturing  the  wet  street 
without,  the  rain  driving  like  fountain  spray  about 
the  gas  lamp,  the  shrilling  of  the  wind  on  those 
waste  places  to  the  north.  It  was  strange  how  in 
the  brick  and  stucco  desert  where  no  trees  were,  he 
all  the  time  imagined  the  noise  of  tossing  boughs,  the 
grinding  of  the  boughs  together.  There  was  a 
great  storm  and  tumult  in  this  wilderness  of  London, 
and  for  the  sound  of  the  rain  and  the  wind  he 
could  not  hear  the  hum  and  jangle  of  the  trams, 
and  the  jar  and  shriek  of  the  garden  gates  as  they 
opened  and  shut.  But  he  could  imagine  his  street, 
the  rain-swept  desolate  curve  of  it,  as  it  turned 
northward,  and  beyond,  the  empty  suburban  roads, 
the  twinkling  villa  windows,  the  ruined  field,  the 
broken  lane,  and  then  yet  another  suburb  rising,  a 
solitary  gas-lamp  glimmering  at  a  corner,  and  the 
plane  tree  lashing  its  boughs,  and  driving  great 
showers  against  the  glass. 

It  was  wonderful  to  think  of.  For  when  these 
remote  roads  were  ended  one  dipped  down  the  hill 
into  the  open  country,  into  the  dim  world  beyond  the 
glint  of  the  friendly  fires.  To-night,  how  waste 
they  were,  these  wet  roads,  edged  with  the  red- 
brick houses,  with  shrubs  whipped  by  the  wind 
against  one  another,  against  the  paling  and  the  wall. 

238 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

There  the  wind  swayed  the  great  elms  scattered  on 
the  sidewalk,  the  remnants  of  the  old  stately  fields, 
and  beneath  each  tree  was  a  pool  of  wet,  and  a 
torrent  of  raindrops  fell  with  every  gust.  And 
one  passed  through  the  red  avenues,  perhaps  by  a 
little  settlement  of  flickering  shops,  and  passed  the 
last  sentinel  wavering  lamp,  and  the  road  became  a 
ragged  lane,  and  the  storm  screamed  from  hedge  to 
hedge  across  the  open  fields.  And  then,  beyond,  one 
touched  again  upon  a  still  remoter  avant-guard  of 
London,  an  island  amidst  the  darkness,  surrounded 
by  its  pale  of  twinkling  starry  lights. 

He  remembered  his  wanderings  amongst  these 
outposts  of  the  town,  and  thought  how  desolate 
all  their  ways  must  be  to-night.  They  were  solitary 
in  wet  and  wind,  and  only  at  long  intervals  some 
one  pattered  and  hurried  along  them,  bending  his 
eyes  down  to  escape  the  drift  of  rain.  Within  the 
villas,  behind  the  close-drawn  curtains,  they  drew 
about  the  fire,  and  wondered  at  the  violence  of  the 
storm,  listening  for  each  great  gust  as  it  gathered 
far  away,  and  rocked  the  trees,  and  at  last  rushed 
with  a  huge  shock  against  their  walls  as  if  it  were 
the  coming  of  the  sea.  He  thought  of  himself  walk- 
ing, as  he  had  often  walked,  from  lamp  to  lamp  on 
such  a  night,  treasuring  his  lonely  thoughts,  and 
weighing  the  hard  task  awaiting  him  in  his  room. 
Often  in  the  evening,  after  a  long  day's  labour,  he 
had  thrown  down  his  pen  in  utter  listlessness,  feel- 

239 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ing  that  he  could  struggle  no  more  with  ideas  and 
words,  and  he  had  gone  out  into  driving  rain  and 
darkness,  seeking  the  word  of  the  enigma  as  he 
tramped  on  and  on  beneath  these  outer  battlements 
of  London. 

Or  on  some  grey  afternoon  in  March  or  Novem- 
ber he  had  sickened  of  the  dull  monotony  and  the 
stagnant  life  that  he  saw  from  his  window,  and  had 
taken  his  design  with  him  to  the  lonely  places,  halt- 
ing now  and  again  by  a  gate,  and  pausing  in  the 
shelter  of  a  hedge  through  which  the  austere  wind 
shivered,  while,  perhaps,  he  dreamed  of  Sicily,  or 
of  sunlight  on  the  Provencal  olives.  Often  as  he 
strayed  solitary  from  street  to  field,  and  passed  the 
Syrian  fig  tree  imprisoned  in  Britain,  nailed  to  an 
ungenial  wall,  the  solution  of  the  puzzle  became 
evident,  and  he  laughed,  and  hurried  home  eager  to 
make  the  page  speak,  to  note  the  song  he  had 
heard  on  his  way. 

Sometimes  he  spent  many  hours  treading  this 
edge  and  brim  of  London,  now  lost  amidst  the  dun 
fields,  watching  the  bushes  shaken  by  the  wind,  and 
now  looking  down  from  a  height  whence  he  could 
see  the  dim  waves  of  the  town,  and  a  barbaric  water 
tower  rising  from  a  hill,  and  the  snuff-coloured  cloud 
of  smoke  that  seemed  blown  up  from  the  streets  into 
the  sky. 

There  were  certain  ways  and  places  that  he  had 
cherished;  he  loved  a  great  old  common  that  stood 

240 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

on  high  ground,  curtained  about  with  ancient  spa- 
cious houses  of  red  brick,  and  their  cedarn  gardens. 
And  there  was  on  a  road  that  led  to  this  common 
a  space  of  ragged  uneven  ground  with  a  pool  and 
a  twisted  oak,  and  here  he  had  often  stayed  in 
autumn  and  looked  across  the  mist  and  the  valley  at 
the  great  theatre  of  the  sunset,  where  a  red  cloud 
like  a  charging  knight  shone  and  conquered  a  purple 
dragon  shape,  and  golden  lances  glittered  in  a  field 
of  faery  green. 

Or  sometimes,  when  the  unending  prospect  of 
trim,  monotonous,  modern  streets  had  wearied  him, 
he  had  found  an  immense  refreshment  in  the  dis- 
covery of  a  forgotten  hamlet,  left  in  a  hollow,  while 
all  new  London  pressed  and  serged  on  every  side, 
threatening  the  rest  of  the  red  roofs  with  its  vulgar 
growth.  These  little  peaceful  houses,  huddled  to- 
gether beneath  the  shelter  of  trees,  with  their  bulg- 
ing leaded  windows  and  uneven  roofs,  somehow 
brought  back  to  him  the  sense  of  the  country,  and 
soothed  him  with  the  thought  of  the  old  farm-houses, 
white  or  grey,  the  homes  of  quiet  lives,  harbours 
where,  perhaps,  no  tormenting  thoughts  ever  broke 
in. 

For  he  had  instinctively  determined  that  there  was 
neither  rest  nor  health  in  all  the  arid  waste  of  streets 
about  him.  It  seemed  as  if  in  those  dull  rows  of 
dwellings,  in  the  prim  new  villas  red  and  white  and 
staring,  there  must  be  a  leaven  working  which  trans- 

241 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

formed  all  to  base  vulgarity.  Beneath  the  dull  sad 
slates,  behind  the  blistered  doors,  love  turned  to 
squalid  intrigue,  mirth  to  drunken  clamour,  and  the 
mystery  of  life  became  a  common  thing;  religion 
was  sought  for  in  the  greasy  piety  and  flatulent  ora- 
tory of  the  Independent  chapel,  the  stuccoed  night- 
mare of  the  Doric  columns.  Nothing  fine,  nothing 
rare,  nothing  exquisite,  it  seemed,  could  exist  in  the 
weltering  surburban  sea,  in  the  habitations  which 
had  risen  from  the  stench  and  slime  of  the  brick- 
fields. It  was  as  if  the  sickening  fumes  that  steamed 
from  the  burning  bricks  had  been  sublimed  into  the 
shape  of  houses,  and  those  who  lived  in  these  grey 
places  could  also  claim  kinship  with  the  putrid  mud. 
Hence  he  had  delighted  in  the  few  remains  of 
the  past  that  he  could  find  still  surviving  on  the 
suburb's  edge,  in  the  grave  old  houses  that  stood, 
apart  from  the  road,  in  the  mouldering  taverns  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  in  the  huddled  hamlets  that 
had  preserved  only  the  glow  and  the  sunlight  of  all 
the  years  that  had  passed  over  them.  It  appeared 
to  him  that  vulgarity,  and  greasiness  and  squalor 
had  come  with  a  flood,  that  not  only  the  good  but 
also  the  evil  in  man's  heart  had  been  made  common 
and  ugly,  that  a  sordid  scum  was  mingled  with  all 
the  springs,  of  death  as  of  life.  It  would  be  alike 
futile  to  search  amongst  these  mean  two-storied 
houses  for  a  splendid  sinner  as  for  a  splendid  saint; 

242 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  very  vices  of  these  people  smelt  of  cabbage  water 
and  a  pothouse  vomit. 

And  so  he  had  often  fled  away  from  the  serried 
maze  that  encircled  him,  seeking  for  the  old  and 
worn  and  significant  as  an  antiquary  looks  for  the 
fragments  of  the  Roman  temple  amidst  the  modern 
shops.  In  some  way  the  gusts  of  wind  and  the 
beating  rain  of  the  night  reminded  him  of  an  old 
house  that  had  often  attracted  him  with  a  strange 
indefinable  curiosity.  He  had  found  it  on  a  grim 
grey  day  in  March,  when  he  had  gone  out  under  a 
leaden-moulded  sky,  cowering  from  a  dry  freezing 
wind  that  brought  with  it  the  gloom  and  the  doom 
of  far  unhappy  Siberian  plains.  More  than  ever 
that  day  the  suburb  had  oppressed  him ;  insignificant, 
detestable,  repulsive  to  body  and  mind,  it  was  the 
only  hell  that  a  vulgar  age  could  conceive  or  make, 
an  inferno  created  not  by  Dante  but  by  the  jerry- 
builder.  He  had  gone  out  to  the  north,  and  when 
he  lifted  up  his  eyes  again  he  found  that  he  had 
chanced  to  turn  up  by  one  of  the  little  lanes  that 
still  strayed  across  the  broken  fields.  He  had  never 
chosen  this  path  before  because  the  lane  at  its  out- 
let was  so  wholly  degraded  and  offensive,  littered 
with  rusty  tins  and  broken  crockery,  and  hedged  in 
with  a  paling  fashioned  out  of  scraps  of  wire,  rot- 
ting timber,  and  bending  worn-out  rails.  But  on 
this  day,  by  happy  chance,  he  had  fled  from  the 

243 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

high  road  by  the  first  opening  that  offered,  and  he 
no  longer  groped  his  way  amongst  obscene  refuse, 
sickened  by  the  bloated  bodies  of  dead  dogs,  and 
fetid  odours  from  unclean  decay,  but  the  malpassage 
had  become  a  peaceful  winding  lane,  with  warm 
shelter  beneath  its  banks  from  the  dismal  wind.  For 
a  mile  he  had  walked  on  quietly,  and  then  a  turn  in 
the  road  showed  him  a  little  glen  or  hollow,  watered 
by  such  a  tiny  rushing  brooklet  as  his  own  woods 
knew,  and  beyond,  alas,  the  glaring  foreguard  of  a 
"new  neighbourhood" ;  raw  red  villas,  semi-detached, 
and  then  a  row  of  lamentable  shops. 

But  as  he  was  about  to  turn  back,  in  the  hope  of 
finding  some  other  outlet,  his  attention  was  charmed 
by  a  small  house  that  stood  back  a  little  from  the 
road  on  his  right  hand.  There  had  been  a  white 
gate,  but  the  paint  had  long  faded  to  grey  and  black 
and  the  wood  crumbled  under  the  touch,  and  only 
moss  marked  out  the  lines  of  the  drive.  The  iron 
railing  round  the  lawn  had  fallen,  and  the  poor 
flower-beds  were  choked  with  grass  and  a  faded 
growth  of  weeds.  But  here  and  there  a  rosebush 
lingered  amidst  suckers  that  had  sprung  grossly 
from  the  root,  and  on  each  side  of  the  hall  door 
were  box  trees,  untrimmed,  ragged,  but  still  green. 
The  slate  roof  was  all  stained  and  livid,  blotched 
with  the  drippings  of  a  great  elm  that  stood  at  one 
corner  of  the  neglected  lawn,  and  marks  of  damp 
and  decay  were  thick  on  the  uneven  walls,  which 

244 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

had  been  washed  yellow  many  years  before.  There 
was  a  porch  of  trellis  work  before  the  door,  and 
Lucian  had  seen  it  rock  in  the  wind,  swaying  as  if 
every  gust  must  drive  it  down.  There  were  two 
windows  on  the  ground  floor,  one  on  each  side  of 
the  door,  and  two  above,  with  a  blind  space  where  a 
central  window  had  been  blocked  up. 

This  poor  and  desolate  house  had  fascinated  him. 
Ancient  and  poor  and  fallen,  disfigured  by  the  slate 
roof  and  the  yellow  wash  that  had  replaced  the  old 
mellow  dipping  tiles  and  the  warm  red  walls,  and 
disfigured  again  by  spots  and  patches  of  decay;  it 
seemed  as  if  its  happy  days  were  forever  ended. 
To  Lucian  it  appealed  with  a  sense  of  doom  and  hor- 
ror; the  black  streaks  that  crept  upon  the  walls,  and 
the  green  drift  upon  the  roof,  appeared  not  so  much 
the  work  of  foul  weather  and  dripping  boughs,  as 
the  outward  signs  of  evil  working  and  creeping  in 
the  lives  of  those  within. 

The  stage  seemed  to  him  decked  for  doom, 
painted  with  the  symbols  of  tragedy;  and  he 
wondered  as  he  looked  whether  any  one  were  so 
unhappy  as  to  live  there  still.  There  were  torn 
blinds  in  the  windows,  but  he  had  asked  himself, 
who  could  be  so  brave  as  to  sit  in  that  room, 
darkened  by  the  dreary  box,  and  listen  of  winter 
nights  to  the  rain  upon  the  window,  and  the  moan- 
ing of  wind  amongst  the  tossing  boughs  that  beat 
against  the  roof. 

245 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

He  could  not  imagine  that  any  chamber  in  such  a 
house  "was  habitable.  (Here  the  dead  had  lain, 
through  the  white  blind  the  thin  light  had  filtered 
on  the  rigid  mouth,  and  still  the  floor  must  be  wet 
with  tears  and  still  that  great  rocking  elm  echoed 
the  groaning  and  the  sobs  of  those  who  watched. 
No  doubt,  the  damp  was  rising,  and  the  odour  of 
the  earth  filled  the  house,  and  made  such  as  entered 
draw  back,  foreseeing  the  hour  of  death. 

Often  the  thought  of  this  strange  old  house  had 
haunted  him,  he  had  imagined  the  empty  rooms 
where  a  heavy  paper  peeled  from  the  walls  and 
hung  in  dark  strips;  and  he  could  not  believe  that 
a  light  ever  shone  from  those  windows  that  stared 
black  and  glittering  on  the  neglected  lawn.  But 
to-night  the  wet  and  the  storm  seemed  curiously  to 
bring  the  image  of  the  place  before  him,  and  as 
the  wind  sounded  he  thought  how  unhappy  those 
must  be,  if  any  there  were,  who  sat  in  the  musty 
chambers  by  a  flickering  light,  and  listened  to  the 
elm-tree  moaning  and  beating  and  weeping  on  the 
walls. 

And  to-night  was  Saturday  night;  and  there 
was  about  that  phrase  something  that  muttered  of 
the  condemned  cell,  of  the  agony  of  a  doomed  man. 
Ghastly  to  his  eyes  was  the  conception  of  any  one 
sitting  in  that  room  to  the  right  of  the  door  behind 
the  larger  box  tree,  where  the  wall  was  cracked 

246 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

above  the  window  and  smeared  with  a  black  stain 
in  an  ugly  shape. 

He  knew  how  foolish  it  had  been  in  the  first 
place  to  trouble  his  mind  with  such  conceits  of  a 
dreary  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  London.  And 
it  was  more  foolish  now  to  meditate  these  things, 
fantasies,  feigned  forms,  the  issue  of  a  sad  mood 
and  a  bleak  day  of  spring.  For  soon,  in  a  few 
moments,  he  was  to  rise  to  a  new  life.  He  was 
but  reckoning  up  the  account  of  his  past,  and  when 
the  light  came  he  was  to  think  no  more  of  sorrow 
and  heaviness,  of  real  or  imagined  terrors.  He 
had  stayed  too  long  in  London,  and  he  would  once 
more  taste  the  breath  of  the  hills,  and  see  the  river 
winding  in  the  long  lovely  valley;  ah!  he  would  go 
home. 

Something  like  a  thrill,  the  thrill  of  fear,  passed 
over  him  as  he  remembered  that  there  was  no  home. 
It  was  in  the  winter,  a  year  and  a  half  after  his 
arrival  in  town,  that  he  had  suffered  the  loss  of  his 
father.  He  lay  for  many  days  prostrate,  over- 
whelmed with  sorrow  and  with  the  thought  that 
now  indeed  he  was  utterly  alone  in  the  world. 
Miss  Deacon  was  to  live  with  another  cousin  in 
Yorkshire;  the  old  home  was  at  last  ended  and 
done.  He  felt  sorry  that  he  had  not  written  more 
frequently  to  his  father:  there  were  things  in  his 
cousins  letters  that  had  made  his  heart  sore.  'Your 

247 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

poor  father  was  always  looking  for  your  letters,' 
she  wrote,  'they  used  to  cheer  him  so  much.  He 
nearly  broke  down  when  you  sent  him  that  money 
last  Christmas ;  he  got  it  into  his  head  that  you  were 
starving  yourself  to  send  it  to  him.  He  was  hoping 
so  much  that  you  would  have  come  down  this 
Christmas,  and  kept  asking  me  about  the  plum-pud- 
dings months  ago.' 

It  was  not  only  his  father  that  had  died,  but 
with  him  the  last  strong  link  was  broken,  and  the 
past  life,  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  grew  faint  as  a 
dream.  With  his  father  his  mother  died  again, 
and  the  long  years  died,  the  time  of  his  innocence, 
the  memory  of  affection.  He  was  sorry  that  his 
letters  had  gone  home  so  rarely;  it  hurt  him  to  im- 
agine his  father  looking  out  when  the  post  came 
in  the  morning,  and  forced  to  be  sad  because  there 
was  nothing.  But  he  had  never  thought  that  his 
father  valued  the  few  lines  that  he  wrote,  and  in- 
deed it  was  often  difficult  to  know  what  to  say.  It 
would  have  been  useless  to  write  of  those  agonising 
nights  when  the  pen  seemed  an  awkward  and  out- 
landish instrument,  when  every  effort  ended  in 
shameful  defeat,  or  of  the  happier  hours  when  at 
last  wonder  appeared  and  the  line  glowed,  crowned 
and  exalted.  To  poor  Mr.  Taylor  such  tales 
would  have  seemed  but  trivial  histories  of  some 
Oriental  game,  like  an  odd  story  from  a  land  where 
men  have  time  for  the  infinitely  little,  and  can  se- 

248 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

riously  make  a  science  of  arranging  blossoms  in 
a  jar,  and  discuss  perfumes  instead  of  politics. 
It  would  have  been  useless  to  write  to  the  rec- 
tory of  his  only  interest,  and  so  he  wrote  sel- 
dom. 

And  then  he  had  been  sorry  because  he  could 
never  write  again  and  never  see  his  home.  He  had 
wondered  whether  he  would  have  gone  down  to 
the  old  place  at  Christmas,  if  his  father  had  lived. 
It  was  curious  how  common  things  evoked  the  bit- 
terest griefs,  but  his  father's  anxiety  that  the  plum- 
pudding  should  be  good,  and  ready  for  him,  had 
brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes.  He  could  hear 
him  saying  in  a  nervous  voice  that  attempted  to  be 
cheerful:  'I  suppose  you  will  be  thinking  of  the 
Christmas  puddings  soon,  Jane;  you  remember  how 
fond  Lucian  used  to  be  of  plum-pudding.  I  hope 
we  shall  see  him  this  December.'  No  doubt  poor 
Miss  Deacon  paled  with  rage  at  the  suggestion  that 
she  should  make  Christmas  pudding  in  July;  and 
returned  a  sharp  answer;  but  it  was  pathetic.  The 
wind  wailed,  and  the  rain  dashed  and  beat  again 
and  again  upon  the  window.  He  imagined  that  all 
his  thoughts  of  home,  of  the  old  rectory  amongst 
the  elms,  had  conjured  into  his  mind  the  sound  of 
the  storm  upon  the  trees,  for,  to-night,  very  clearly 
he  heard  the  creaking  of  the  boughs,  the  noise  of 
boughs  moaning  and  beating  and  weeping  on  the 
walls,  and  even  a  pattering  of  wet,  on  wet  earth, 

249 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

as  if  there  were  a  shrub  near  the  window  that 
shook  off  the  raindrops,  before  the  gust. 

That  thrill,  as  it  were  a  shudder  of  fear,  passed 
over  him  again,  and  he  knew  not  what  had  made 
him  afraid.  There  was  some  dark  shadow  on  his 
mind  that  saddened  him,  it  seemed  as  if  a  vague 
memory  of  terrible  days  hung  like  a  cloud  over  his 
thought,  but  it  was  all  indefinite,  perhaps  the  last 
grim  and  ragged  edge  of  the  melancholy  wrack 
that  had  swelled  over  his  life  and  the  bygone  years. 
He  shivered  and  tried  to  rouse  himself  and  drive 
away  the  sense  of  dread  and  shame  that  seemed 
so  real  and  so  awful,  and  yet  he  could  not  grasp 
it.  But  the  torpor  of  sleep,  the  burden  of  the  work 
that  he  had  ended  a  few  hours  before  still  weighed 
down  his  limbs  and  bound  his  thoughts.  He  could 
scarcely  believe  that  he  had  been  busy  at  his  desk 
a  little  while  ago,  and  that  just  before  the  winter 
day  closed  in  and  the  rain  began  to  fall  he  had  laid 
down  the  pen  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  had  slept 
in  his  chair.  It  was  rather  as  if  he  had  slumbered 
deeply  through  a  long  and  weary  night,  as  if  an 
awful  vision  of  flame  and  darkness  and  the  worm 
that  dieth  not  had  come  to  him  sleeping.  But  he 
would  dwell  no  more  on  the  darkness;  he  went  back 
to  the  early  days  in  London  when  he  had  said  fare- 
well to  the  hills  and  to  the  waterpools,  and  had 
set  to  work  in  this  little  room  in  the  dingy  street. 

How  he  had  toiled  and  laboured  at  the  desk 
250 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

before  him !  He  had  put  away  the  old  wild  hopes 
of  the  masterpiece  conceived  and  executed  in  a  fury 
of  inspiration,  wrought  out  in  one  white  heat  of 
creative  joy;  it  was  enough  if  by  dint  of  long  per- 
severance and  singleness  of  desire  he  could  at  last, 
in  pain  and  agony  and  despair,  after  failure  and 
disappointment  and  effort  constantly  renewed,  fash- 
ion something  of  which  he  need  not  be  ashamed. 
He  had  put  himself  to  school  again,  and  had,  with 
what  patience  he  could  command,  ground  his  teeth 
into  the  rudiments,  resolved  that  at  last  he  would 
tear  out  the  heart  of  the  mystery.  They  were 
good  nights  to  remember,  these;  he  was  glad  to 
think  of  the  little  ugly  room,  with  its  silly  wall- 
paper and  its  'bird's-eye'  furniture,  lighted  up, 
while  he  sat  at  the  bureau  and  wrote  on  into  the 
cold  stillness  of  the  London  morning,  when  the 
flickering  lamp-light  and  the  daystar  shone  together. 
It  was  an  interminable  labour,  and  he  had  always 
known  it  to  be  as  hopeless  as  alchemy.  The  gold, 
the  great  and  glowing  masterpiece,  would  never 
shine  amongst  the  dead  ashes  and  smoking  efforts 
of  the  crucible,  but  in  the  course  of  the  life,  in  the! 
interval  between  the  failures,  he  might  possibly 
discover  curious  things. 

These  were  the  good  nights  that  he  could  look 
back  on  without  fear  or  shame,  when  he  had  been 
happy  and  content  on  a  diet  of  bread  and  tea  and 
tobacco,  and  could  hear  of  some  imbecility  passing 

251 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

into  its  hundredth  thousand,  and  laugh  cheerfully 
— if  only  that  last  page  had  been  imagined  aright, 
if  the  phrases  noted  in  the  still  hours  rang  out 
their  music  when  he  read  them  in  the  morning.  He 
remembered  the  drolleries  and  fantasies  that  the 
worthy  Miss  Deacon  used  to  write  to  him,  and  how 
he  had  grinned  at  her  words  of  reproof,  admoni- 
tion, and  advice.  She  had  once  instigated  Dolly 
fits  to  pay  him  a  visit,  and  that  young  prop  of  re-< 
spectability  had  talked  about  the  extraordinary  run- 
ning of  Bolter  at  the  Scurragh  meeting  in  Ireland; 
and  then,  glancing  at  Lucian's  books,  had  inquired 
whether  any  of  them  had  'warm  bits.'  He  had 
been  kind  though  patronising,  and  seemed  to  have 
moved  freely  in  the  most  brilliant  society  of  Stoke 
Newington.  He  had  not  been  able  to  give  any 
information  as  to  the  present  condition  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe's  old  school.  It  appeared  eventually  that 
his  report  at  home  had  not  been  a  very  favourable 
one,  for  no  invitation  to  high  tea  had  followed,  as 
Miss  Deacon  had  hoped.  The  Dollys  knew  many 
nice  people,  who  were  well  off,  and  Lucian's  cousin, 
as  she  afterwards  said,  had  done  her  best  to  intro- 
duce him  to  the  beau  monde  of  those  northern 
suburbs. 

But  after  the  visit  of  the  young  Dolly,  with  what 
joy  he  had  returned  to  the  treasures  which  he  had 
concealed  from  profane  eyes.  He  had  looked  out 
and  seen  his  visitor  on  board  the  tram  at  the  street 

252 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

corner,  and  he  laughed  out  loud,  and  locked  his 
door.  There  had  been  moments  when  he  was 
lonely,  and  wished  to  hear  again  the  sound  of 
friendly  speech;  but  after  such  an  irruption  of  sub- 
urban futility,  it  was  a  keen  delight  to  feel  that 
he  could  absorb  himself  in  his  wonderful  task  as 
safe  and  silent  as  if  he  were  in  mid-desert. 

But  there  was  one  period  that  he  dared  not  re- 
vive; he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  those  weeks  of 
desolation  and  terror  in  the  winter  after  his  coming 
to  London.  His  mind  was  sluggish,  and  he  could 
not  quite  remember  how  many  years  had  passed 
since  that  dismal  experience;  it  sounded  all  an  old 
story,  but  yet  it  was  still  vivid,  a  flaming  scroll  of 
terror  from  which  he  turned  his  eyes  away.  One 
awful  scene  glowed  into  his  memory,  and  he  could 
not  shut  out  the  sight  of  an  orgy,  of  dusky  figures 
whirling  in  a  ring,  of  lurid  naphtha  flares  blazing 
in  the  darkness,  of  great  glittering  lamps,  like  in- 
fernal thuribles,  very  slowly  swaying  in  a  violent 
blast  of  air.  And  there  was  something  else,  some- 
thing which  he  could  not  remember,  but  it  filled  him 
with  terror,  but  it  slunk  in  the  dark  places  of  his 
soul,  as  a  wild  beast  crouches  in  the  depths  of  a 
cave. 

Again,  and  without  reason,  he  began  to  image 
to  himself  that  old  mouldering  house  in  the  field. 
With  what  a  loud  incessant  noise  the  wind  must 
be  clamouring  about  on  this  fearful  night,  how  the 

253 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

great  elm  swayed  and  cried  in  the  storm,  and  the 
rain  dashed  and  pattered  on  the  windows,  and 
dripped  on  the  sodden  earth  from  the  shaking 
shrubs  beside  the  door.  He  moved  uneasily  on 
his  chair,  and  struggled  to  put  the  picture  out  of 
his  thoughts;  but  in  spite  of  himself  he  saw  the 
stained  uneven  walls,  that  ugly  blot  of  mildew 
above  the  window,  and  perhaps  a  feeble  gleam  of 
light  filtered  through  the  blind,  and  some  one,  un- 
happy above  all  and  forever  lost,  sat  within  the 
dismal  room.  Or  rather,  every  window  was  black, 
without  a  glimmer  of  hope,  and  he  who  was  shut 
in  thick  darkness  heard  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and 
the  noise  of  the  elm-tree  moaning  and  beating  and 
weeping  on  the  walls. 

For  all  his  effort  the  impression  would  not  leave 
him,  and  as  he  sat  before  his  desk  looking  into 
the  vague  darkness  he  could  almost  see  that  cham- 
ber which  he  had  so  often  imagined;  the  low  white- 
washed ceiling  held  up  by  a  heavy  beam,  the  smears 
of  smoke  and  long  usage,  the  cracks  and  fissures 
of  the  plaster.  Old  furniture,  shabby,  deplorable, 
battered,  stood  about  the  room;  there  was  a  horse- 
hair sofa  worn  and  tottering,  and  a  dismal  paper, 
patterned  in  livid  red,  blackened  and  mouldered 
near  the  floor,  and  peeled  off  and  hung  in  strips 
from  the  dank  walls.  And  there  was  that  odour 
of  decay,  of  the  rank  soil  steaming,  of  rotting 

254 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

wood,  a  vapour  that  choked  the  breath  and  made 
the  heart  full  of  fear  and  heaviness. 

Lucian  again  shivered  with  a  thrill  of  dread; 
he  was  afraid  that  he  had  overworked  himself  and 
that  he  was  suffering  from  the  first  symptoms  of 
grave  illness.  His  mind  dwelt  on  confused  and 
terrible  recollections,  and  with  a  mad  ingenuity 
gave  form  and  substance  to  phantoms;  and  even 
now  he  drew  a  long  breath,  almost  imagining  that 
the  air  in  his  room  was  heavy  and  noisome,  that 
it  entered  his  nostrils  with  some  taint  of  the  crypt. 
And  his  body  was  still  languid,  and  though  he  made 
a  half  a  motion  to  rise  he  could  not  find  enough 
energy  for  the  effort,  and  he  sank  again  into  the 
chair.  At  all  events,  he  would  think  no  more  of 
that  sad  house  in  the  field;  he  would  return  to 
those  long  struggles  with  letters,  to  the  happy 
nights  when  he  had  gained  victories. 

He  remembered  something  of  his  escape  from 
the  desolation  and  the  worse  than  desolation  that 
had  obsessed  him  during  that  first  winter  in  Lon- 
don. He  had  gone  free  one  bleak  morning  in 
February,  and  after  those  dreary  terrible  weeks  the 
desk  and  the  heap  and  litter  of  papers  had  once 
more  engulfed  and  absorbed  him.  And  in  the  suc- 
ceeding summer,  of  a  night  when  he  lay  awake 
and  listened  to  the  birds,  shining  images  came 
wantonly  to  him.  For  an  hour,  while  the  dawn 

255 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

brightened,  he  had  felt  the  presence  of  an  age,  the 
resurrection  of  the  life  that  the  green  fields  had 
hidden,  and  his  heart  stirred  for  joy  when  he  knew 
that  he  held  and  possessed  all  the  loveliness  that 
had  so  long  mouldered.  He  could  scarcely  fall 
asleep  for  eager  and  leaping  thoughts,  and  as  soon 
as  his  breakfast  was  over  he  went  out  and  bought 
paper  and  pens  of  a  certain  celestial  stationer  in 
Netting  Hill.  The  street  was  not  changed  as  he 
passed  to  and  fro  on  his  errand.  The  rattling 
wagons  jolted  by  at  intervals,  a  rare  hansom  came 
spinning  down  from  London,  there  sounded  the 
same  hum  and  jangle  of  the  gliding  trams.  The 
languid  life  of  the  pavement  was  unaltered;  a  few 
people,  unclassed,  without  salience  or  possible  de- 
scription, lounged  and  walked  from  east  to  west, 
and  from  west  to  east,  or  slowly  dropped  into  the 
byways  to  wander  in  the  black  waste  to  the  north, 
or  perhaps  to  go  astray  in  the  systems  that  stretched 
towards  the  river.  He  glanced  down  these  by- 
roads as  he  passed,  and  was  astonished,  as  always, 
at  their  mysterious  and  desert  aspect.  Some  were 
utterly  empty;  lines  of  neat,  appalling  residences, 
trim  and  garnished  as  if  for  occupation,  edging  the 
white  glaring  road;  and  not  a  soul  was  abroad,  and 
not  a  sound  broke  their  stillness.  It  was  a  picture 
of  the  desolation  of  midnight  lighted  up,  but  empty 
and  waste  as  the  most  profound  and  solemn  hours 
before  the  day.  Other  of  these  by-roads,  of  older 

256 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

settlement,  were  furnished  with  more  important 
houses,  standing  far  back  from  the  pavement,  each 
in  a  little  wood  of  greenery,  and  thus  one  might 
look  down  as  through  a  forest  vista,  and  see  a  way 
smooth  and  guarded  with  low  walls  and  yet  un- 
trodden, and  all  a  leafy  silence.  Here  and  there 
in  some  of  these  echoing  roads  a  figure  seemed 
lazily  advancing  in  the  distance,  hesitating  and 
delaying,  as  if  lost  in  the  labyrinth.  It  was  difficult 
to  say  which  were  the  more  dismal,  these  deserted 
streets  that  wandered  away  to  right  and  left,  or  the 
great  main  thoroughfare  with  its  narcotic  and 
shadowy  life.  For  the  latter  appeared  vast,  inter- 
minable, grey,  and  those  who  travelled  by  it  were 
scarcely  real,  the  bodies  of  the  living,  but  rather  the 
uncertain  and  misty  shapes  that  come  and  go  across 
the  desert  in  an  Eastern  tale,  when  men  look  up 
from  the  sand  and  see  a  caravan  pass  them,  all  in 
silence,  without  a  cry  or  a  greeting.  So  they 
passed  and  repassed  each  other  on  those  pavements, 
appearing  and  vanishing,  each  intent  on  his  own 
secret,  and  wrapped  in  obscurity.  One  might  have 
sworn  that  not  a  man  saw  his  neighbor  who  met 
him  or  jostled  him,  that  here  every  one  was  a 
phantom  for  the  other,  though  the  lines  of  their 
paths  crossed,  and  recrossed,  and  their  eyes  stared 
like  the  eyes  of  live  men.  When  two  went  by  to- 
gether, they  mumbled  and  cast  distrustful  glances 
behind  them  as  though  afraid  all  the  world  was 

257 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

an  enemy,  and  the  pattering  of  feet  was  like  the 
noise  of  a  shower  of  rain.  Curious  appearances 
and  simulations  of  life  gathered  at  points  in  the 
road,  for  at  intervals  the  villas  ended  and  shops 
began  in  a  dismal  row,  and  looked  so  hopeless  that 
one  wondered  who  could  buy.  There  were  women 
fluttering  uneasily  about  the  greengrocers,  and 
shabby  things  in  rusty  black  touched  and  retouched 
the  red  lumps  that  an  unshaven  butcher  offered, 
and  already  in  the  corner  public  there  was  a  con- 
fused noise,  with  a  tossing  of  voices  that  rose  and 
fell  like  a  Jewish  chant,  with  the  senseless  stir  of 
marionettes  jerked  into  an  imitation  of  gaiety. 
Then,  in  crossing  a  side  street  that  seemed  like 
grey  mid-winter  in  stone,  he  trespassed  from  one 
world  to  another,  for  an  old  decayed  house  amidst 
its  garden  held  the  opposite  corner.  The  laurels 
had  grown  into  black  skeletons,  patched  with  green 
drift,  the  ilex  gloomed  over  the  porch,  the  deodar 
had  blighted  the  flower-beds.  Dark  ivies  swarmed 
over  an  elm-tree,  and  a  brown  clustering  fungus 
sprang  in  gross  masses  on  the  lawn,  showing  where 
the  roots  of  dead  trees  mouldered.  The  blue  ver- 
andah, the  blue  balcony  over  the  door,  had  faded 
to  grey,  and  the  stucco  was  blotched  with  ugly 
marks  of  weather,  and  a  dank  smell  of  decay,  that 
vapour  of  black  rotten  earth  in  old  town  gardens, 
hung  heavy  about  the  gates.  And  then  a  row  of 
musty  villas  had  pushed  out  in  shops  to  the  pave- 

258 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

ment,  and  the  things  in  faded  black  buzzed  and 
stirred  about  the  limp  cabbages,  and  the  red  lumps 
of  meat. 

It  was  the  same  terrible  street,  whose  pavements 
he  had  trodden  so  often,  where  sunshine  seemed 
but  a  gaudy  light,  where  the  fume  of  burning  bricks 
always  drifted.  On  black  winter  nights  he  had 
seen  the  sparse  lights  glimmering  through  the  rain 
and  drawing  close  together,  as  the  dreary  road 
vanished  in  long  perspective.  Perhaps  this  was 
its  most  appropriate  moment,  when  nothing  of  its 
smug  villas  and  skeleton  shops  remained  but  the 
bright  patches  of  their  windows,  when  the  old  house 
amongst  its  mouldering  shrubs  was  but  a  dark  cloud, 
and  the  streets  to  north  and  south  seemed  like  starry 
wastes,  beyond  them  the  blackness  of  infinity.  Al- 
ways in  the  daylight  it  had  been  to  him  abhorred 
and  abominable,  and  its  grey  houses  and  purlieus 
had  been  fungus-like  sproutings,  and  the  efflores- 
cence of  horrible  decay. 

But  on  that  bright  morning  neither  the  dreadful 
street  nor  those  who  moved  about  it  appalled 
him.  He  returned  joyously  to  his  den,  and  rever- 
ently laid  out  the  paper  on  his  desk.  The  world 
about  him  was  but  a  grey  shadow  hovering  on  a 
shining  wall;  its  noises  were  faint  as  the  rustling 
of  trees  in  a  distant  wood.  The  lovely  and  exqui- 
site forms  of  those  who  served  the  Amber  Venus 
were  his  distinct,  clear,  and  manifest  visions,  and 

259 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

for  one  amongst  them  who  came  to  him  in  a  fire 
of  bronze  hair  his  heart  stirred  with  the  adoration 
of  love.  She  it  was  who  stood  forth  from  all  the 
rest  and  fell  down  prostrate  before  the  radiant 
form  in  amber,  drawing  out  her  pins  in  curious  gold, 
her  glowing  brooches  of  enamel,  and  pouring  from 
a  silver  box  all  her  treasure  of  jewels  and  precious 
stones,  chrysoberyl  and  sardonyx,  opal  and  diamond, 
topaz  and  pearl.  And  then  she  stripped  from  her 
body  her  precious  robes  and  stood  before  the  god- 
dess in  the  glowing  mist  of  her  hair,  praying  that 
to  her  who  had  given  all  and  came  naked  to  the 
shrine,  love  might  be  given,  and  the  grace  of  Venus. 
And  when  at  last,  after  strange  adventures,  her 
prayer  was  granted,  then  when  the  sweet  light  came 
from  the  sea,  and  her  lover  turned  at  dawn  to  that 
bronze  glory,  he  saw  beside  him  a  little  statuette  of 
amber.  And  in  the  shrine  far  in  Britain  where 
the  black  rains  stained  the  marble,  they  found  the 
splendid  and  sumptuous  statue  of  the  Golden  Venus, 
the  last  fine  robe  of  silk  that  the  lady  had  dedicated 
falling  from  her  fingers,  and  the  jewels  lying  at 
her  feet.  And  her  face  was  like  the  lady's  face 
when  the  sun  had  brightened  it  on  that  day  of  her 
devotion. 

The  bronze  mist  glimmered  before  Lucian's  eyes; 
he  felt  as  though  the  soft  floating  hair  touched  his 
forehead  and  his  lips  and  his  hands.  The  fume 
of  burning  bricks,  the  reek  of  cabbage  water,  never 

260 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

reached  his  nostrils  that  were  filled  with  the  per- 
fume of  rare  unguents,  with  the  breath  of  the  violet 
sea  in  Italy.  His  pleasure  was  an  inebriation,  an 
ecstasy  of  joy  that  destroyed  all  the  vile  Hottentot 
kraals  and  mud  avenues  as  with  one  white  light- 
ning flash,  and  through  the  hours  of  that  day  he  sat 
enthralled,  not  contriving  a  story  with  patient  art, 
but  rapt  into  another  time,  and  entranced  by  the 
ardent  gleam  in  the  lady's  eyes. 

The  little  tale  of  The  Amber  Statuette  had  at 
last  issued  from  a  humble  office  in  the  spring  after 
his  father's  death.  The  author  was  utterly  un- 
known; the  author's  Murray  was  a  wholesale  sta- 
tioner and  printer  in  process  of  development,  so 
that  Lucian  was  astonished  when  the  book  became 
a  moderate  success.  The  reviewers  had  been  sadly 
irritated,  and  even  now  he  recollected  with  cheer- 
fulness an  article  in  an  influential  daily  paper,  an 
article  pleasantly  headed:  'Where  are  the  disin- 
fectants ?' 

And  then — but  all  the  months  afterwards  seemed 
doubtful,  there  were  only  broken  revelations  of  the 
laborious  hours  renewed,  and  the  white  nights  when 
he  had  seen  the  moonlight  fade  and  the  gaslight 
grow  wan  at  the  approach  of  dawn. 

He  listened.  Surely  that  was  the  sound  of  rain 
falling  on  sodden  ground,  the  heavy  sound  of  great 
swollen  drops  driven  down  from  wet  leaves  by  the 
gust  of  wind,  and  then  again  the  strain  of  boughs 

26l 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

sang  above  the  tumult  of  the  air,  there  was  a  doleful 
noise  as  if  the  storm  shook  the  masts  of  a  ship.  He 
had  only  to  get  up  and  look  out  of  the  window  and 
he  would  see  the  treeless  empty  street,  and  the  rain 
starring  the  puddles  under  the  gas-lamp,  but  he 
would  wait  a  little  while. 

He  tried  to  think  why,  in  spite  of  all  his  reso- 
lutions, a  dark  horror  seemed  to  brood  more  and 
more  over  all  his  mind.  How  often  he  had  sat  and 
worked  on  just  such  nights  as  this,  contented  if  the 
words  were  in  accord  though  the  wind  might  wail, 
though  the  air  were  black  with  rain.  Even  about 
the  little  book  that  he  had  made  there  seemed  some 
taint,  some  shuddering  memory,  that  came  to  him 
across  the  gulf  of  forgetfulness.  Somehow  the 
remembrance  of  the  offering  to  Venus,  of  the 
phrases  that  he  had  so  lovingly  invented,  brought 
back  again  the  dusky  figures  that  danced  in  the  orgy, 
beneath  the  brassy  glittering  lamps;  and  again  the 
naphtha  flares  showed  the  way  to  the  sad  house  in 
the  fields,  and  the  red  glare  lit  up  the  mildewed  walls 
and  the  black  hopeless  windows.  He  gasped  for 
breath,  he  seemed  to  inhale  a  heavy  air  that  reeked 
of  decay  and  rottenness,  and  the  odour  of  the  clay 
was  in  his  nostrils. 

That  unknown  cloud  that  had  darkened  his 
thoughts  grew  blacker  and  engulfed  him,  despair  was 
heavy  upon  him,  his  heart  fainted  with  a  horrible 
dread.  In  a  moment,  it  seemed,  a  veil  would  be 

262 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

drawn  away  and  certain  awful  things  would  appear. 

He  strove  to  rise  from  his  chair,  to  cry  out,  but 
he  could  not.  Deep,  deep  the  darkness  closed  upon 
him,  and  the  storm  sounded  far  away.  The  Roman 
fort  surged  up,  terrific,  and  he  saw  the  writhing 
boughs  in  a  ring,  and  behind  them  a  glow  and  heat 
of  fire.  There  were  hideous  shapes  that  swarmed 
in  the  thicket  of  the  oaks;  they  called  and  beckoned 
to  him,  and  rose  into  the  air,  into  the  flame  that 
was  smitten  from  heaven  about  the  walls.  And 
amongst  them  was  the  form  of  the  beloved,  but 
jets  of  flame  issued  from  her  breast,  and  beside 
her  was  a  horrible  old  woman,  naked;  and  they, 
too,  summoned  him  to  mount  the  hill. 

He  heard  Dr.  Burrows  whispering  of  the  strange 
things  that  had  been  found  in  old  Mrs.  Gibbon's 
cottage,  obscene  figures,  and  unknown  contrivances. 
She  was  a  witch,  he  said,  and  the  mistress  of  the 
witches. 

He  fought  against  the  nightmare,  against  the 
illusion  that  bewildered  him.  All  his  life,  he 
thought,  had  been  an  evil  dream,  and  for  the 
common  world  he  had  fashioned  an  unreal  red  gar- 
ment, that  burned  in  his  eyes.  Truth  and  the 
dream  were  so  mingled  that  now  he  could  not  di- 
vide one  from  the  other.  He  had  let  Annie  drink 
his  soul  beneath  the  hill,  on  the  night  when  the 
moonfire  shone,  but  he  had  not  surely  seen  her  ex- 
alted in  the  flame,  the  Queen  of  the  Sabbath. 

263 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

Dimly  he  remembered  Dr.  Burrows  coming  to  see 
him  in  London,  but  had  he  not  imagined  all  the 
rest? 

Again  he  found  himself  in  the  dusky  lane,  and 
Annie  floated  down  to  him  from  the  moon  above 
the  hill.  His  head  sank  upon  her  breast  again, 
but,  alas,  it  was  aflame.  And  he  looked  down,  and 
he  saw  that  his  own  flesh  was  aflame,  and  he  knew 
that  the  fire  could  never  be  quenched. 

There  was  a  heavy  weight  upon  his  head,  his 
feet  were  nailed  to  the  floor,  and  his  arms  bound 
tight  beside  him.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  rage 
and  struggle  with  the  strength  of  a  madman;  but 
his  hand  only  stirred  and  quivered  a  little  as  it  lay 
upon  the  desk. 

Again  he  was  astray  in  the  mist;  wandering 
through  the  waste  avenues  of  a  city  that  had  been 
ruined  from  ages.  It  had  been  splendid  as  Rome, 
terrible  as  Babylon,  and  forever  the  darkness  had 
covered  it,  and  it  lay  desolate  forever  in  the  ac- 
cursed plain.  And  far  and  far  the  grey  passages 
stretched  into  the  night,  into  the  icy  fields,  into  the 
place  of  eternal  gloom. 

Ring  within  ring  the  awful  temple  closed  around 
him;  unending  circles  of  vast  stones,  circle  within 
circle,  and  every  circle  loss  throughout  all  ages. 
In  the  centre  was  the  sanctuary  of  the  infernal 
rite,  and  he  was  borne  thither  as  in  the  eddies  of 
a  whirlpool,  to  consummate  his  ruin,  to  celebrate 

264 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

the  wedding  of  the  Sabbath.  He  flung  up  his  arms 
and  beat  the  air,  resisting  with  all  his  strength, 
with  muscles  that  could  throw  down  mountains; 
and  this  time  his  little  finger  stirred  for  an  instant, 
and  his  foot  twitched  upon  the  floor. 

Then  suddenly  a  flaring  street  shone  before  him. 
There  was  darkness  round  about  him,  but  it  flamed 
with  hissing  jets  of  light  and  naphtha  fires,  and 
great  glittering  lamps  swayed  very  slowly  in  a  vio- 
lent blast  of  air.  A  horrible  music,  and  the  ex- 
ultation of  discordant  voices,  swelled  in  his  ears, 
and  he  saw  an  uncertain  tossing  crowd  of  dusky 
figures  that  circled  and  leapt  before  him.  There 
was  a  noise  like  the  chant  of  the  lost,  and  then 
there  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  orgy,  beneath  a 
red  flame,  the  figure  of  a  woman.  Her  bronze 
hair  and  flushed  cheeks  were  illuminate,  and  an 
argent  light  shone  from  her  eyes,  and  with  a  smile 
that  froze  his  heart  her  lips  opened  to  speak  to 
him.  The  tossing  crowd  faded  away,  falling  into 
a  gulf  of  darkness,  and  then  she  drew  out  from 
her  hair  pins  of  curious  gold,  and  glowing  brooches 
in  enamel,  and  poured  out  jewels  before  him  from 
a  silver  box,  and  then  she  stripped  from  her  body 
her  precious  robes,  and  stood  in  the  glowing  mist 
of  her  hair,  and  held  out  her  arms  to  him.  But 
he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  the  mould  and  decay 
gaining  on  the  walls  of  a  dismal  room,  and  a 
gloomy  paper  was  dropping  to  the  rotting  floor. 

265 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

A  vapour  of  the  grave  entered  his  nostrils,  and  he 
cried  out  with  a  loud  scream;  but  there  was  only 
an  indistinct  guttural  murmur  in  his  throat. 

And  presently  the  woman  fled  away  from  him, 
and  he  pursued  her.  She  fled  away  before  him 
through  midnight  country,  and  he  followed  after 
her,  chasing  her  from  thicket  to  thicket,  from  valley 
to  valley.  And  at  last  he  captured  her  and  won 
her  with  horrible  caresses,  and  they  went  up  to 
celebrate  and  make  the  marriage  of  the  Sabbath. 
They  were  within  the  matted  thicket,  and  they 
writhed  in  the  flames,  insatiable,  forever.  They 
were  tortured,  and  tortured  one  another,  in  the 
sight  of  thousands  who  gathered  thick  about  them; 
and  their  desire  rose  up  like  a  black  smoke. 

Without,  the  storm  swelled  to  the  roaring  of  an 
awful  sea,  the  wind  grew  to  a  shrill  long  scream, 
the  elm-tree  was  riven  and  split  with  the  crash  of 
a  thunderclap.  To  Lucian  the  tumult  and  the 
shock  came  as  a  gentle  murmur,  as  if  a  brake  stirred 
before  a  sudden  breeze  in  summer.  And  then  a 
vast  silence  overwhelmed  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  shuffling  of 
feet  in  the  passage,  and  the  door  was  softly  opened. 
A  woman  came  in,  holding  a  light,  and  she  peered 
curiously  at  the  figure  sitting  quite  still  in  the  chair 
before  the  desk.  The  woman  was  half  dressed, 
and  she  had  let  her  splendid  bronze  hair  flow  down, 

266 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  as  she  advanced  into 
the  shabby  room,  the  lamp  she  carried  cast  quaking 
shadows  on  the  mouldering  paper,  patched  with 
marks  of  rising  damp,  and  hanging  in  strips  from 
the  wet,  dripping  wall.  The  blind  had  not  been 
drawn,  but  no  light  nor  glimmer  of  light  filtered 
the  window,  for  a  great  straggling  box  tree  that 
beat  the  rain  upon  the  panes  shut  out  even  the  night. 
The  woman  came  softly,  and  as  she  bent  down 
over  Lucian  an  argent  gleam  shone  from  her  brown 
eyes,  and  the  little  curls  upon  her  neck  were  like 
golden  work  upon  marble.  She  put  her  hand  to 
his  heart,  and  looked  up,  and  beckoned  to  some 
one  who  was  waiting  by  the  door. 

'Come  in,  Joe,'  she  said.  'It's  just  as  I  thought 
it  would  be:  "Death  by  misadventure";'  and  she 
held  up  a  little  empty  bottle  of  dark  blue  glass 
that  was  standing  on  the  desk.  'He  would  take 
it,  and  I  always  knew  he  would  take  a  drop  too  much 
one  of  these  days.' 

'What's  all  those  papers  that  he's  got  there?' 

'Didn't  I  tell  you?  It  was  crool  to  see  him. 
He'd  got  it  into  'is  'ead  he  could  write  a  book;  he's 
been  at  it  for  the  last  six  months.  Look  'ere.' 

She  spread  the  neat  pile  of  manuscript  broadcast 
over  the  desk,  and  took  a  sheet  at  haphazard.  It 
was  all  covered  with  illegible  hopeless  scribblings; 
only  here  and  there  it  was  possible  to  recognise  a 
word. 

267 


The  Hill  of  Dreams 

'Why,  nobody  could  read  it,  if  they  wanted  to.' 
'It's  all  like  that.  He  thought  it  was  beautiful. 
I  used  to  'ear  him  jabbering  to  himself  about  it, 
dreadful  nonsense  it  was  he  used  to  talk.  I  did 
my  best  to  tongue  him  out  of  it,  but  it  wasn't  any 
good.' 

'He  must  have  been  a  bit  dotty.     He's  left  you 
everything?' 
'Yes.' 

'You'll  have  to  see  about  the  funeral.' 
'There'll  be  the  inquest  and  all  that  first.' 
'You've  got  evidence  to  show  he  took  the  stuff.' 
'Yes,  to  be  sure  I  have.     The  doctor  told  him  he 
would  be  certain  to  do  for  himself,  and  he  was 
found  two  or  three  times  quite  silly  in  the  streets. 
They  had  to  drag  him  away  from  a  house  in  Halden 
Road.     He  was  carrying  on  dreadful,  shaking  at  the 
gaite,   and  calling  out  it  was  'is  'ome  and  they 
wouldn't  let  him  in.     I  heard  Dr.  Manning  myself 
tell  'im  in  this  very  room  that  he'd  kill  'imself  one  of 
these  days.     Joe !    Aren't  you  ashaimed  of  yourself. 
I  declare  you're  quite  rude,  and  it's  almost  Sunday 
too.     Bring  the  light  over  here,  can't  you  ?' 

The  man  took  up  the  blazing  paraffin  lamp,  and 
set  it  on  the  desk,  beside  the  scattered  heap  of  that 
terrible  manuscript.  The  flaring  light  shone 
through  the  dead  eyes  into  the  dying  brain,  and 
there  was  a  glow  within,  as  if  great  furnace  doors 
were  opened. 

268 


-'  Library 


Libra 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGEL! 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

cor.  erg, 


-ot!  l  53! 

OCT3 


*JCOLI 


Rf  <TD  COC,  OIL 

QQT  1519781 
o 


Book  Slip-35m-9,'62(D2218s4)4280 


UCLA-Co,teg«  Library 

PR  6025  M18hi 


College 


A     001  184457     8 


V  ^ 
/  V 


A 


